


chase the wind and touch the sky

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-26
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:13:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1059955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a dead knight to turn Killian into a jousting champion. It takes a horse and a stick, four friends, and a stubborn princess to turn him into a knight. They say a man can change his star; his is starting to shine brighter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. introduction

“I have bad news and very bad news.”

With a sigh, Killian checks the girth one last time before he turns to his friend, patting the mare’s neck. He’s in no mood for Graham’s riddles, not with only three hours of sleep behind him and another long night awaiting. So he only gives the other man a raise of the eyebrow, a silent question.

“Sir Maurice has to be in the list in five minutes.”

Killian sighs. Did he mention he was not in the mood for riddles? “Is that the bad or the really bad?”

“The bad. The really bad is that, well…” Graham glances behind his shoulder. “Sir Maurice is dead.”

“What the…”

Killian lets go of the horse and runs to the tent, only to find Jefferson throwing a fist, half mad, at their knight. He screams and shakes his arms and, oh bloody hell, even slaps Sir Maurice in hope it will wake him up – in vain, of course. Killian has to stop him before he goes for a kick in the belly, holding him back while Jefferson keeps screaming like a madman.

“Wake up, you old fool! Let go of me, Killian, or I swear… Get the hell up and win that bloody tournament so you can finally pay us! Three days! I haven’t eaten in three days and…”

It ends in a groan, from both him and Killian, when Graham throws a bucket of cold water at his face, but it works – Jefferson finally shuts up. The three of them stare at each other until they’re all startled by a cough from outside the tent. A squire looks at them warily, especially when Graham and Killian both move to hide the interior of the tent from him, innocent grins on their lips.

“Sir Maurice must report in two minutes.”

“Two minutes. All right. We’ll be there.” Killian’s grin grows wider, and perhaps crazier, as the squire takes in his wet body then tries to peek above his shoulder. Still he leaves them, and the three friends go back to their staring contest for a moment or two.

“We cannot declare forfeit,” Jefferson says out loud what they’re all thinking. “We need the money. We need _the food_.”

“We cannot _not_ declare forfeit either. He’s _dead_!”

Jefferson is about to start another angry speech when Killian, looking at the dead body of their knight, deadpans, “I’ll do it.”

“You what?”

“I’ll do it. I’ll ride in his place.”

All Graham can do is laugh, a hollow cold sound, as he grabs the other squire by the shoulder to face him. “Here’s some news for you, Killian Jones, son of a blacksmith: you are not a knight. You cannot rid in a tournament because _you are not a knight_.”

“I know that and you know that but…” Graham groans when a genuine grin appears on Killian’s lips, the one that means business and mischief. “But those people don’t know that. And when I’ll have the helmet on, all they will see is Sir Maurice on his horse and we’ll be _fine_.”

“This is madness. You can’t joust!” Jefferson exclaims, and Graham points at him above his shoulder with a nod, as if those were true words of wisdom. But Killian’s grin never disappears, not even when he grabs the helmet by Sir Maurice’s side.

“I can ride and I can hold a spear. How hard can it be?”

. 

As a matter of fact, harder than he thought. Killian tries not to be too overwhelmed by the fear as his horse gallops toward the other knight but then he forgets how to breath when the spears meets his chest in a loud bang – not enough to have him fall, but enough to see stars for a second. _This was a terrible idea_ , and it sounds like Graham’s voice in his head. But he can’t stop, not now, not on an empty stomach, not when his friends count on him to succeed.

So he goes for another round, and then another.

He can’t help the scream, the howl of pain when the spear hits his head so violently he almost tumbles off. But then he hears Jefferson’s mad screams and Graham’s laughs and, even if the pain barely allows him to look behind, he doesn’t need to because he knows – the knight fell down his horse. They won. They won, both the horse and the tournament, and Killian’s stomach groans in anticipation, and _they won_.

The lord gives him his prize, a little bag of golden coins, barely complaining that he can’t see his champion’s face – Killian is not exactly sure how they’re going to put the helmet off, and they obviously can’t do that now. So he accepts the prize and the cheers with a bow of his head, glad that the helmet hides his huge grin.

From the corner of his eye, he catches the sight of long blond hair as one of the ladies leaves the grounds, right before Jefferson claps his thigh with too much strength. Killian glares back at him, but his friend keeps laughing and chanting “food food _food_ ”. Killian can only laugh with him, and Graham follows after only a few seconds.

They must look like lunatics, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care.


	2. chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: yes, it is obviously a Knight's Tale rewrite. Second: thank you for the nice feedback already!  
> Also, I quite imagine the Enchanted Forest to be like old England: a lot of little kingdoms forming a bigger one. In that case, Charming and Snow are on the top of the hierarchy. Meaning that, even if Aurora still is a princess, she's of lower rank than Emma. Does it make sense? I hope so.

Emma’s breath catches in her chest as Aurora pulls on the laces of her corset with too much strength for such a small body. She huffs her annoyance but her lady-in-waiting chooses to ignore her, used to the princess’s bad mood when it comes to clothing. She pulls a bit more, then again, before delicately knotting the two strands of lace at the bottom. Aurora then helps her putting the dress on, and that’s how Mulan finds them when she enters the royal quarters, fighting with lace and tulle. The warrior stifles a laugh, earning a glare from Emma.

“Don’t you dare.”

Mulan holds her hands in surrender but the smile remains on her lips, and Emma huffs once more. She hates that, the clothes and the hair and people staring at her like she’s some prize, like she’s nothing more than a source of gossip. She hates this game of appearances and would give anything to be able to wearing breeches and a sword, just like her bodyguard. But, alas, she didn’t prove herself in battle like Mulan did, so dresses and etiquette it is.

Aurora still lacing her dress, Emma looks at the other woman above her shoulder with a little nod; she knows Mulan must be caring a message. And, indeed, she bows a little, a biggest grin on her lips – good news it is.

“Baelfire has been called back on the battlefield. He won’t be at the tournament today.”

A laugh bubbles out of her before she can stop it, and Emma presses her fingers to her lips in fake composure. “Pray tell me, is he fighting the Ogres or he is one of them? I can never remember.”

“Emma!”

Mulan purses her lips not to laugh while Aurora gives her an offended look than Emma brushes off with another smile. Aurora is still young, barely sixteen, and innocent; she’ll understand soon enough. So instead, Emma focuses on her hair and the fact that yes Baelfire won’t be there, _thanks the heavens_. Pretending not to mind his wooing is even more tiring than pretending not to mind any other lord’s wooing and she is glad for the break his absence gives her. Maybe she’ll finally be able to enjoy the jousting in peace.

As on queue with her thoughts, the trumpets outside announce the beginning of the tournament. Of course, Aurora starts panicking immediately because she is not ready, and Emma can only roll her eyes at the youngest princess while she looks for her shoes, her hairpin. She shares a meaningful glance with Mulan and rolls her eyes a second time before grabbing Aurora by the arm, telling her that she looks lovely in a reassuring tone.

They sit with the other guests, Mulan standing right behind them with a hand on the pommel of her sword, Aurora easily beginning to rambling about this knight or that lady. Emma listens, a smile on her lips, almost jealous of how at ease Aurora is, used to the gossips and the whispers – Emma has never been able to do that, to care much about the love stories and the scandals. So she listens, laughs every so often, and waits for the tournament to begin.

It is only a small one, barely more than twenty knights, but it doesn’t disappoint her.

Her father’s men are good and skilled, putting on a show for the crowd’s enjoyment, obviously having fun in the process. Emma can only admire their technique, envious once again, how they hold the lance, ride the horse, like nothing scares them, like they’re not facing death.

(Knights don’t die in jousting, it’s not death as much as the adrenaline of the moment they’re facing, but Emma likes to pretend otherwise, if only because it makes her heart beat faster.)

Aurora gossips about that one and praises this one’s handsome face, and Mulan comments on their fighting choices. Overall, Emma enjoys herself – more than if Baelfire were there to keep her company, that’s for sure – and she even gasps along with the crowd when a lance hits Sir Maurice right in the face, almost breaking his helmet. Aurora’s gasp is even louder, and Emma has to grab her by the arm for her not to jump on her feet in alarm.

The other knight falls and Sir Maurice wins, which is even more impressive, and then comes the prize giving, all in bows and sickening formalities.

“I’m bored,” she says to Mulan, who nods in response. It takes some convincing for Aurora to follow them out of the grounds and back to their tent. When they lie together in bed at night, legs entangled and whispering to each other, Aurora says, “Prince Phillip is very handsome, don’t you think? It’s so bad he lost to Sir Maurice.” and Emma senses the difference in her voice, the longing. She sighs, before of course her lady-in-waiting would be the one to fall in love at first sight when Emma can’t even have a decent conversation with a man without being bored after five minutes.

“Yes, I guess he is…” is all she says, falling asleep not long after that.

 

.

 

They meet Victor in all his (naked) glory on the side of the road.

They’ve been travelling for two weeks now, training on mornings and walking on afternoons, getting ready for the next tournament – Killian isn’t still quite sure how he managed to convince them both that it would be a good idea, but he _did_ , and here they are.

A lot of people have crossed their path until then but a naked blond man walking on the side of the road… Well, that’s new.

Killian frowns at him from the top of his horse, then frowns at Jefferson who seems equally surprised, then at Graham who shrugs in reply. Especially since the man barely seems to notice them, humming an unknown song to himself and strutting like it’s nobody’s business. Definitely off his rocker, this one.

“Excuse me, sir?” Killian ignores both his friends trying to stop him. “Are you all right?”

Killian dismounts, handing the reins to Graham before carefully approaching the stranger. The man seems to notice he isn’t alone and, when he finally looks at Killian, it’s with a madness in his eyes that isn’t without reminding of Jefferson when he’s throwing a fit. Which isn’t reassuring at all. There’s madness in his smile too, and Killian can only reply with a nervous grin, wondering if they’re going to die by the hand of a naked lunatic.

“You know what?” he finally says, pointing a finger at Killian who can only jump back in surprise. “Never ever _ever_ mistake a pixie for a fairy. Same size, same little glow, but pixies are dangerous little creatures. _Very_ dangerous little creatures.”

Killian only nods at first, doing his best not to gulp too loudly or to look at his friends behind him – breaking eye contact seems dangerous, for a reason. “Is that how you lost your clothes, mate?”

The blond man replies with a hollow laugh. “Indeed. Well, no, not really. Stripped me of my clothes, yes, but not because I thought they were fairies.”

Killian waits for more, but the man only stares at him. “All right… Care to tell me who you are, then.”

“The name is Victor. Victor Frankenstein.” He says that with a sense of finality, like it’s supposed to ring a bell – it doesn’t. Killian tilts his head before looking at his friends with a rise of the eyebrow, but they both seems as confused as he is. “ _Doctor_ Frankenstein?” Victor goes on. “The scientist? Wrote many books, been published, huge discovery in the field of medicine? No? Nothing?”

Killian shakes his head, which makes Victor sighs deeply – not like he’s angry, just disappointed apparently. Oh well, crazy man, not everybody’s reputation precedes them.

Looking above Killian’s shoulder, Victor takes in their strange little group – Graham still holding the mare, Jefferson holding the pony that pulls their cart full of lances and armours, the horse they won following peacefully. They haven’t had any problem until then, but Killian has no doubt they must look odd at best because none of them actually look like a knight, not with their old breeches and dirty faces.

“Who are you, exactly?”

Killian puffs his chest, even so slightly. “Well, I am Sir James of Eton, and those are my squire, Jefferson and Graham.”

“Eton, _really_? Why not Lord of Neverland, while you’re at it? No, no, better, why not King Arthur Pendragon?”

Killian’s dagger is on Victor’s throat in an instant, his eyes suddenly a darker blue. “Hold your tongue or I’ll cut it, _scientist_.”

Victor gives his a brief yet huge grin. “That I believe, my lord.” Then, after a break, “I’m afraid it won’t be enough for what you have in mind, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“The tourney. They will ask for your letter patents and I’m afraid that…” He does a little sound then that conveys the words he’s not saying.

Confused, Killian lets go of his throat to look at Graham. The squire is at lost too, and so might be Jefferson because, _of course_ , it is something they didn’t think of when elaborating their little plan.

“All right, listen,” Victor says when he realises none of them is going to move any time soon. “I know my way around words. Feed me, clothe me, and bring me to the closest town with fairies. I will help you.”

A simple glance between the three friend and they silently agree to move away from Victor to talk about it between them. Of course, Jefferson immediately wants to refuse where Killian immediately wants to agree and, of course, it’s Graham who has to choose in the end – even if they don’t seem like they have much of a choice. When they finally look back at Victor, he has a smug grin on his lips.

“All right. But no funny business or I’ll take more than your tongue.”

Victor bows to Killian with as much sarcasm as one can put in such a gesture. “Thank you for your kindness, my lord.”

 

.

 

It takes them another week to arrive to the next tournament, a little kingdom Killian has never heard of before, with an even smallest town. To their surprise – and relief – Victor presents the letter patents and nothing terrible happens.

“I present you Lord James of Eton, son of John, son of Michael.” The hosts accept them without second thought and tell them where they can make camp. Killian is so relieved he lets out a breathless laugh as he grabs Victor by the shoulder.

“Be my herald and you’ll have your share of the winnings.”

“It’d be an honour, my lord,” Victor replies with a little bow and a twinkle in his eyes – Killian knows he can be trusted, only because he enjoys the scam as much as everyone else.

They set up camp and take care of the horses before nightfall and then split up for the night, not without a reminder that they need to be up at dawn so alcohol might not be such a good idea. Killian is the last one to leave and, after a moment or two of thinking, he decides to take the horse and visit the town – it’s been so long since the last time he simply wandered around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the meeting is coming!  
> And can you guess which lovely lady will soon become the fifth musketeer?


	3. chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credits to the song go, of course, to the amazing Pirates of Caribbean ost.

He lets go of the reins, not worried in the path the horse chooses to take, and stretches his arms out, eyes closed and head tilted back. The sun is about to set, bathing the town in pink and orange tones, warming the bare skin of his face and forearms. People turn to look at him when they hear the sound of the hooves, one or two girls giggling when they look at him – he looks back, with a wink and a grin as he makes them blush.

He could get used to it all, the travelling and the training and simply enjoying himself freely. Killian hasn't been free in a long time, he had almost forgotten what it feels like – a bird opening its wings after years locked in a cage.

The old mare leads him through the streets of the unknown city, turning here and there, stopping to eat a bit of grass once in a while. It is peaceful, perfect, and Killian finds himself singing the same song Victor never stops humming on the road, now stuck in their heads forever.

“Upon one summer’s morning, she carelessly did stray, down by the walls of Wapping, where she met a sailor gay…”

He doesn’t know where the song comes from – he grew up by the sea, he pretty much knows all the sailors’ songs – but something tells him it is not from this realm. He isn’t quite sure Victor himself is from this realm, but he’d rather not think about it. The lyrics are beautiful and easy to sing, so he focuses on that and not on their new mate.

Especially with the smiles people throw at him, and that makes him smile in return. Old maids and children, men going out for the night, young ladies at their windows – all going on with their own lives, meeting him for only a second or two, offering him a smile, a wave. He feels powerful, in a way, and that surprises him a bit, as much as it thrills him – the power of a knight, of a gentleman.

His horse decides to suddenly turn left for apparently no reason at all, as he keeps singing. That’s how he finds them, on the side of the road, whispering to each other in hushed tones.

He notices the brunette first, young and pretty, hiding her blush behind her hand when he smiles at her, still singing. The dark-skinned one then, hand on the sword by her side, eyeing him before settling in a thin smile of her own. And, finally, _her_. His heart skips a beat, even if his voice doesn’t falter, as he takes in the long blond hair cascading over her shoulders, the impish grin as she tries to shush her friend, the greenest eyes he’s ever seen when she finally looks back at him.

“Her heart is pierced by Cupid, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her but her jolly sailor bold,” he sings to her with a crooked smile, ignoring how her friend leans against her shoulder to whisper in her ear – she doesn’t listen, he thinks, but neither does she try to stop the other girl.

“Nice shanty, Sir Pirate.” The sarcasm drips from her voice and he can only grins because, _damn_.

“I am no pirate, m’lady, only a knight.”

“Nah, pirate suits you,” she replies, both her friends laughing now, a private joke he can’t understand.

Still, the warrior one has enough composure to add, “You will address the princess by her title, Sir.” His eyes immediately widen, body going stiff. _Princess_. He is exchanging quips with a princess, a witty beautiful princess. Just his luck. So he nods once, not trusting his mouth when his heart beats faster against his ribcage, panic rising within him. (He realises he has no idea how he’s supposed to call her if ‘my lady’ is wrong. Your Highness? Your Grace? Somebody help him.) The princess must notice his distress – how couldn’t she? – because she rolls her eyes almost too dramatically.

“Please, call me anything but _princess_.” She spits the word like it’s a slur but he can only raise an eyebrow, and her cheeks turn a pretty shade of pink as she realises what she just said. Her loss of composure, if only for an instant, makes him forget his. Is she for real?

“And how should I call you then, m’lady?” He doesn’t know where the teasing in his voice comes from, along with the boldness, and he has to remind himself that her friend – her bodyguard, most likely – has a sword and that wooing an unknown princess in the middle of a street for everyone to see might not be the most clever thing to do.

“Do as you wish. It is not as if we’re going to meet again, after all.”

He can feel himself grinning like a lunatic, doesn’t find it in himself to care. What he cares about is the way she leans forwards to grab her dress, resolute to leave, her friends following her. She doesn’t even look back, and he finds himself panicking for the second time in a few minutes – the reasons far different this time.

He calls after her.

“I shall call you Lady Swan, then.”

It makes her stop. She turns to him with a raise of the eyebrows, surprise and curiosity painted on her face. “Swan?”

The little voice in his head that sounds a lot like Graham tells him to stop, she’s a princess, what are you doing you idiot, yet the words are out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Aye. Beautiful, yet fiery.”

She hesitates for a moment, ready to go back to her friends waiting for her a few feet away, but settles for looking at him again with a smile he can’t decipher. “Will you be at the tournament tomorrow?”

“That I will, my lady swan.”

The answer might satisfy her as she nods one last time before going back to her friends. As he spurs on his horse, he hears her friend giggling and “That’s one handsome pirate.” She doesn’t agree.

Neither does she deny it.

 

.

 

Emma sits on the front row, Aurora to her left and Mulan behind them, as usual. She’s not familiar with the lord of this town, even if his face isn’t an unknown one, and she’s relieved she doesn’t have to make small talk with him and his wife – instead, she’s free to listen to Aurora’s endless gossips and to watch the show.

“Your Highness, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Or maybe not.

She plasters her best smile on her face before turning around to greet Baelfire – in the corner of her eyes, she sees Mulan’s little smirk, the vixen – as he sits next to her with a smile of his own. She hates that, how at ease he always is, like courting her is the most natural thing to do. Being courted definitely is not, but princess or not, you cannot turn down the Dark One’s son that easily. If only he could take a hint…

“How were the Ogres, my lord?”

She doesn’t care for his answer, and nearly dozes off when he starts talking of the war – she knows politics, of course, but wars have never been her forte – only to be startled by Aurora suddenly gripping her arm with a squeaking sound.

“My Lady Swan?”

Baelfire is immediately forgotten as she turned her head to find her pirate – _hers?_ – on his horse in front of her, grinning like the idiot he most likely is. Her smile turns into something more, honest and relieved, and she hates that he does that to her. She’s not the kind of lady who swoons over knights in shinning armour, never has and never will.

“Sir Pirate!” she replies as she leans forwards, elbows against knees, to be closer to him despite the fence between them. She can feel Baelfire squirm next to her, which makes everything even better. _Feel the competition, Bae_. “I’m glad you could bless us with your presence.”

The second knight rides past them, but she recognizes the horse and the armour, fighting back a grin – her pirate is in here for a treat. The other knight slows down his steed, and Emma can almost make out the smile and the wink despite the helmet hiding his face – she also notices how he stares at both Baelfire and her pirate, as if judging them both, before riding away without a word. She tries not to roll her eyes – typical of him, really – as she focuses back on the man in front of her, drowning in his blue eyes.

“I still don’t know how to address you, Lady Swan.”

“It sounds like you do, though.”

A crooked grin appears on his lips, as if ready to retort, only to be cut off by Baelfire. “And who are you, Sir?”

He seems taken aback for a few seconds, and all she wants is to tell Baelfire to shut up, doesn’t he see he’s interrupting something – but that’s exactly his point. “Sir James of Eton,” her pirate finally replies.

It is so strange to put a name of that handsome face of his. _James_. Like her late uncle. It suits him, probably.

“Eton, hm? Never heard of the name.”

She rolls her eyes, something that Baelfire doesn’t notice but James does, and he flashes her a grin before looking back at the other man. The grin disappears, annoyance painted all over his face. _You and me both_ , she thinks. “I come from one of the kingdoms in the far north, Sir. Hence the foreign name. And the accent.” The trumpets announce the beginning of the tournament, and he looks over his shoulder before his eyes lock with hers. “And speaking of names, I’ll need yours soon enough, my Lady Swan.”

“Win this match and we’ll see.”

“Is that a promise?”

Damn him and his hopeful face. “We’ll see. Now go.”

“I will win this tournament to hear your name, then.” He winks at her, making Aurora gasp at his boldness, before spurring his horse to a gallop. Emma can only glances at her friend, who’s still grabbing her arm, and both princesses only need to share a look before bursting into a fit of giggles.

When she looks to her right after a few moments, Baelfire is brooding like a five year old.

 

.

 

Emma keeps a straight face as the herald – she thinks his name is Jacob and he’s definitely a kitchen boy, not an herald at all – lists names after ancestors after titles after victories. If she turns around, it’ll be to a smirking Mulan, rolling her eyes at the fake identity. Yes, he’s less and less careful about polishing it, and there’s no doubt that he’ll be caught some day – not that he cares, apparently. Sometimes, Emma wonders what their people really think of them, the royals who don’t act as such, who’d rather spend their time wandering around the kingdom. Surely they must paint a funny portrait.

She claps with everybody else when the herald bows at the end of his speech, quickly replaced by the other, one of James’ men. All smiles and bouncing on his feet like it’s impossible for him to stand still – it makes her smile, how different they seem to be, how refreshing they are.

“My lords, my ladies…” He bows even so slightly before flippantly turning around to face the crowd. “… And everybody out there without a title of their own.”

Aurora gasps to her left, Baelfire huffs to her right, and Emma chuckles under her breath, fighting hard against the grin that threatens to appear on her lips at any moment now. She’s always enjoyed the theatricality of jousting but _this_ , this seems like a whole new level.

“Today I am please, no, I am _honoured_ to introduce you to a knight among knights, a lord whose lineage goes back beyond the First Ogre War. I first met him by the sea, negotiating with mermaids, for they had tried to steal a young boy and to drown him in the salty waters. And then again in the deepest forest, helping fairies whose house had collapsed. He built the most marvellous castle for them, only using his bare hands, asking nothing in return.” The crowd is captivated by now – so is she, for there are wonders in his words, even if she guesses them to be beautiful lies. “Finally, _finally_ , our paths crossed again last year, when he stopped a child slaver, selling the poor orphans to the dark shadows of another realm.”

The crowd is booing by now, and Emma no longer tries to hide her smile, amusingly squeezing Aurora’s hand between her fingers.

“So, without further ado, here come the mermaid-whisperer, the fairy architect, the saviour of lost souls… The one, the only, _Siiiiiiir_ James of Eton!”

Without surprise, the crowd goes crazy then, cheering and clapping and singing the knight’s name. _Win the people’s heart and you’ll win their respect_ , her father had told her once. She wonders what he thinks of this now – she’ll have to ask him later.

“Well. That was different,” Aurora states in what has to be her more deadpan voice, still amused around the edges.

“True pirates,” is all Emma can answer.


	4. chapter 3

The horses are stamping and shaking their mane in anticipation, and Emma finds herself as restless as they are, almost sitting on the edge of the bench. She wants to grab someone’s hand and squeeze it, but Aurora would only complain about her strength and Baelfire would take that the wrong way. Not for the first time today, she wishes he weren’t there so she could hold Mulan’s hand in hers without feeling judged. Alas here he is, so she grabs the bench by her sides, careful not to touch anyone and draw attention to her white knuckles.

She knows it is quite silly to be that worried over the joust, especially since she’s fairly certain everything will be all right, yet she can’t help herself. And when, in the silence of the crowd, one of them clicks his tongue and both horses urge forward, all she can do is hold her breath and wait. They meet at the centre, lances loudly crashing against the other’s chest, and she winces by reflex. None of them fall, though, allowing her to sigh deeply.

Each is given a point as they go back to their end of the yard, squire already giving them their second lance. If she looks closely, she sees her pirate massaging his right arm. She realises how worried she is for him all of a sudden, and has no idea where this is coming from – he is, after all, nothing more than a cocky knight.

She’s worried because of the man he’s playing against.

Yes. That must be it.

Of course that’s it, and she winces again when the horses gallop toward each other for the second time. She can’t stop the gasp before it’s out of her throat, barely registering Aurora crying out in fear and Baelfire’s impressed whistle, all in synchronisation with the loud painful crash of the lances and even louder even more painful sound of ripped metal. But it’s not Sir James’ broken armour that has her on her feet, gripping the fence. It’s the way the second knight is thrown backward, head hitting his horse’s croup – the animal kicks, which may be the knight’s salvation as it helps him find his balance again.

It takes all of Emma’s will to stay perfectly still, to ignore her racing heart and frightened mind. She cannot run toward him and make sure he is fine, she cannot reveal his identity, not now. So her fingers tighten against the wood of the fence, even when the knight raises an arm to show he made it without a wound – the rational part of her thinks about writing to her mother later because _this must not happen again_.

 

.

 

Killian sets his horse to a slow trot to meet the other knight in the middle of the yard, lifting his visor as the other does the same. When they’re next to each other and he looks at his opponent’s face, Killian can’t help but gasp.

He was only a boy, barely even ten, and the memories are foggy at best – a queen with hair dark as night and a smile warm as the sun; a princess with hair as golden as her father’s, in his arms, laughing; the king, in all his glory and kindness. Sir Maurice had been invited to the royal celebration and Killian had squired his horse that day – the only way he could have glanced at the royal family, if only for a second.

The king’s face has aged but not changed, blue eyes laughing despite the obvious pain he’s in, suffering from the lance’s blow with shallow breaths. The king, King David, _the_ King is smiling at him and all Killian can think is _bloody hell he’s pretending to be someone else too_. (Except it’s different of course, because the king is still nobility while Killian is nothing but the son of a blacksmith but, if only for a second, it’s all that matter to him.)

“Sir James,” he says, gritting his teeth – trying, and failing, not to show weakness, like the monarch he is – and Killian has to remember that _he is_ Sir James. “You bested me where a dragon couldn’t. If you’d be so kind not to finish me off.”

Killian’s mind goes blank, all thoughts erased in an instant because this can’t be true, he must be dreaming, this is Fate mocking him for pretending to be someone he’s not. He blinks, hard, but the King’s face remains. His mind is so empty yet he finds himself smirking and replying, “That would be bad form, indeed,” almost cheekily. The King laughs as Killian’s brain catches up – oh Gods, did he just banter with _the bloody King of all people_? – and they both nod in agreement before going back to their side of the yard.

Graham stares at him, confused and concerned. “Are you all right? Look like you saw a ghost.”

Killian feels very pale indeed, and dizzy, like he could faint at any moment. “Worse,” he replies, taking the lance Jefferson holds out to him.

 

.

 

Emma ignores as Aurora persistently tugs on the skirt of her dress, muttering, “Sit down, please, this is not proper, people are staring.” Like she’s afraid to make a scene, like people would stare at her anyway. They always did. So she doesn’t let go of the fence she’s leaning against, ignoring the bite of the wood against her belly, as she stares at the two knights talking with each other in front of her. Subconsciously, she tiptoes, as if it could allow her to hear them from where she stands – no such luck.

Only when the knights move again does she sit back, much to Aurora’s relief. Still, her breath catches in her throat, loudly this time, as she can’t hide her surprise at seeing them stop the match, seeing her father withdraw. Relief washes over her for some reason – what she really concerned for his well-being? He’s strong and skilled, he’s seen worse than a knight old enough to be his son.

“Sir James spared him. Yet you’d still call him pirate,” Baelfire spits.

Emma closes her eyes for a brief moment, painfully remembering that he is indeed still by her side, before offering him a tight smile. “He shows mercy, like a true gentleman.”

“Mercy is nothing but weakness, Emma. It wouldn’t do on a battlefield.”

“Thankfully this isn’t one, then.” She turns to Mulan without leaving him time to answer, “I want to go back to my tent.”

The warrior nods as she puts her hand on the tilt of her sword, and both her and Aurora follows Emma without a last glance to Baelfire.

It is only when she’s back inside her tent, Aurora brushing her hair and cleaning her face, that she remembers a precious detail.

 

.

 

She throws the horseshoe in the slack tub, a white steamy cloud engulfing her immediately. Grabbing the horseshoe with tongs, she checks her work with an expert eye before putting it in a bucket. She doesn’t notice them as she wipes her forehead with the back of her hand and puts her heavy dark braid back over her shoulder – which is all the better, as it gives Graham time to push Victor’s jaw upward, closing his mouth, all of them chuckling quietly at how smitten he already seems to be. Killian clears his throat then, and she turns around to look at him, one eyebrow raised in a silent question as she wipes her hands on her apron – her eyebrow game is almost as impressive as his, how does she manage that?

“Yes?”

He shakes his head even so slightly and holds his chest plate for her to see. It took quite the blow, almost ripped in two, useless now. The lady blacksmith raises her eyebrow higher, obviously unimpressed.

“Got money for that?”

“No but…”

“No money, no job.” And, with that, she turns her back to them, picking another horseshoe and putting it in the fire, purposefully ignoring them.

Killian turns to Graham, who gives him a quick nod, and says, “See? I told you we should have listened to them.”

Her whole body tenses, even slightly, but Killian notices, fights hard again his smirk. Graham does the same as he replies, “All right, fine. I didn’t have my hopes high anyway.”

She angrily works the bellows, bigger flames almost burning her arms in the process. They share a quick grin when she finally turns around to stare at them, hands on her hips. “Did they say it was because I’m a woman?”

Killian feigns innocence. “No, they said it was because you’re new on the market. And more apt with horseshoes. The fact you’re a woman wasn’t even mentioned at all, actually.”

She glares at the other blacksmiths above his shoulder, and it’s enough for Killian to know he plucked the right string. She seems to hesitate, before tearing the chest plate from his hands to examine it, brows furrowed in concentration. After a minute or two, she raises her eyes to look at him.

“You’re going to travel around until the King’s tournament, right?”

“Indeed.”

“Take me with you and I’ll do it for half the prize.”

A grin finally curls Killian’s lips, a small laugh bubbling from his chest as he shakes the blacksmith’s hand – she has a smug smile of her own, all of a sudden, and all he can think is _oh, we’re going to get along so well_. Especially since she promises to do the job for the following day, right before his next game. All the better. They leave her soon enough, to let her go back to her work instead of distracting her.

“The name’s Ruby, by the way.”

He bows to her, mockingly. “Pretty girl with a pretty name. It’s going to be a pleasure doing business with you.”

 

.

 

His mates don’t seem to agree, though. “We can’t just keep taking more people with us, Killian, people are going to notice!”

“It’s only one person. We _need_ her.”

“No, we don’t. Once her job is done, we won’t need her. You have a soft spot for pretty girls, is all!”

Killian scoffs. “I don’t! I’m just a gentleman.”

“This is madness, Killian. And troubles! Lots and lots of troubles.”

“You’re only saying that because you’re afraid Victor will fuck her and she won’t want to travel with us after that.”

“Oh, oh, why is it my fault all of a sudden?”

Killian is about to retort when Graham suddenly, and violently, nudges him in the ribs. He startles and glares at his friend, already on edge and ready to lose his patience, when he notices what had Graham do that. Or, rather, who.

She stands a few feet away from them, the spitting image of innocence and shyness, nervously playing with her fingers. He hadn’t really looked at her before, too busy admiring the other lady, but he has to admit she’s pretty – too young for him, obviously, but pretty enough.

“Sir James?” she asks softly, hesitantly.

He can only smile as he signals her to come closer and she does so, slowly. “You’re m’lady Swan’s lady-in-waiting, aren’t you?”

She only nods at first, far from the girl whispering happily in her friend’s ear and laughing at a knight’s antics in the middle of an empty street. “She has a message for you, my lord. She asked me to tell you her name is,” little break, like she does it on purpose. “Emma.”

“ _Emma_ ,” he sighs back, testing the name and how it sounds on his tongue. He wants to say it, again and again, wants to breath it in her ear and… _Emma_.

Wait.

Emma?

His eyes widen in an instant, mouth open in shock, mind going blank for the second time that day – and oh, how he hates this feeling. This can’t be mere coincidence, not today, not when he was here and…

“Emma? _The_ Emma? Emma, the princess Emma?”

The little lady looks at him strangely, but nods anyway.

Bloody hell.

He shared wits with her, he sang to her, he gave her a pet name, he smiled at her and made her smile and almost undressed her with his eyes and she gave him a pet name too and he promised to won a joust for a token of hers and… And he… He courted King David’s daughter.

_Bloody hell._


	5. chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the master of not knowing how to write angst so I hope this chapter will be like Lizzie Bennet: decent enough.

“Killian, for the last time, stop being a child.” Graham offers him a pointed look as he hands out the tunic for him to take, but Killian only folds his arms against his chest with a sigh. He blatantly ignores the warning in his friend’s voice. “I will force you into that tunic if it is the last thing I do.”

They had bought the tunic four towns earlier, after winning the tournament and finally being able to pay Ruby for her work, and he had refused to wear it ever since – had refused to go to each and every victory ball thrown in each and every town after a tournament, stubborn idiot that he is. Which had, after an embarrassing confession, led to Ruby teaching him how to dance – and that alone had led to some epic scenes the other lads were not about to forget, or to let Killian forget. He isn’t that elegant but knows the steps, and it is all that is asked of him.

Really, his refusal is nothing but a display of bad faith.

Graham glares at him, almost forcing the tunic in his hands, which only frustrates Killian a little bit more. There are whispers of his absences already, especially when he is the winner, and they will only grow bigger over time. He has to do something about it, he knows. But the mere idea of…

“He’s simply afraid he’ll see her,” Ruby says, very matter-of-factly, not even raising her head from her nails as she cleans them.

The three other men stare at him then – amused smirk on Victor’s lips and compassionate eyes from Jefferson – and Graham sighs. It’s been a few weeks since his first, and last, encounter with Emma, perfectly avoiding her ever since he’s learnt of her true lineage. Nobody complained at first, because it was indeed the clever thing to do, but it’s getting ridiculous by now.

They can’t afford him to be asocial.

They can’t afford people to start questioning him.

So, with a sigh of his own, forced and loud, he snatches the tunic from Graham’s grip and stomps to his tent.

“Don’t forget to do your hair!” Jefferson calls after him, not even hiding his laugh.

Killian curses under his breath.

 

.

 

“Emma.”

She turns her head at the sound of her name, a smile curling her lips at the sight of the man in front of her. He bows slightly, sparkles in his blue eyes with a smile of his own. (Not quite the blue she’s waiting for, her mind remarks dully.) Still, her heart aches from so many months of being away from him after years spent in his company.

“Pinocchio!” she replies with an easy laugh.

“How many time will I tell you not to call me that?”

With a roll of the eyes, he gestures at the chair next to her in a silent question, barely waiting for her nod of approval before he sits, leaning against the armrest to be closer to her. She leans closer too, effortlessly, with the memories of many a whisper in the dark alcoves of the castle, many a shared secret on the tip of their lips.

“You look bored out of your mind.”

“Perhaps because I am,” she replies without the ounce of a lie in her voice. August has never been one to judge her for her unladylike behaviour, he would not start tonight. She can let the mask drop, if even for a minute, let go of Princess Emma and be _just Emma_ with him. It will only last until some lord asks her for a dance, but it’s enough for her not to lose her mind.

Because she indeed is bored, as always. Different ball, same people. She’s really starting to question her parents’ idea, even if she would never dare saying it out loud. It allows her to travel, to be outside and enjoy herself with her friends – even if the price to pay is boring balls with stuffy people. She’s used to that kind of events, has attended them since she was old enough to dance.

And her annoyance has nothing to do with a certain missing knight.

No.

Not at all.

That would be silly.

So she rather focuses on the positive. And, right now, the positive is her childhood friend next to her, whispering in her ear to make her lose her princess act by laughing out loud. A game of theirs that she mastered by the time she was fourteen but still amuses her nowadays. She has to hide her mouth with her hand when he becomes rather rude toward some other knight, her shoulders jerking with her silent laughs.

“Aren’t you supposed to be _kind_ , my dear Pinocchio?”

Whatever August is planning to reply dies down when Aurora, breathless from too much dancing and Prince Phillip’s hand in hers, comes to stand close to them. Her gleeful features have so kind of mischief edge to them. It makes Emma suspicious immediately – Aurora doesn’t _do_ mischief, the word is probably not even part of her vocabulary.

“Emma! Your pirate is here!” The last word ends in a laugh as Phillip makes her spin in his arms, but she still manages to point the other side of the room. If Emma wants to replies something (perhaps something along the lines of “he’s not _my_ pirate”), Phillip doesn’t let her because he’s already pulling Aurora back to the dance floor.

She tries, as hard as she can, not to stare at Sir James, standing alone against the opposite wall, but she forgets to take August into account, and her friend doesn’t even try to be subtle about it. She’d tear that stupid smirk off his mouth if she could.

“So…” he trails on the word, obvious enjoying himself, “who’s the fellow?”

“Nobody.” But the answer is hushed to quickly, and Emma winces as August’s smirk grows bigger.

She’s been _that girl_ for so long, caring more about her sword than her dresses, more about drinking than flirting. People would find it amusing at first, to see how much she takes from her mother, but they grew tired of it eventually. Now, still unwed after her twentieth birthday, she looks like an old nag – not that she minds the reputation, but she very much minds her suitors’ interest in her. Like she’s some prize, some challenge. Nothing but a puzzle to solve.

So, of course August would be thrilled, and mocking, at the idea of her finally swooning over some knight. She wants to punch him in the face. Maybe it would erase the annoying grin. She huffs and rolls her eyes, but it only makes him chuckle. Her stares at the knight for a long time – she couldn’t tell if James stares back because she’ll looking everywhere but in his direction – before finally looking back at her, with his usual kindness in his eyes.

“All right, Ems. You’re obviously in need of a dance with someone who won’t step on your foot.”

He doesn’t let her time to protest as he takes her hand and pulls her on her feet. Their dance is unconventional at best, barely following the rhythm of the song and inventing steps of their own. Emma finds herself laughing soon enough, forehead leaning against August’s shoulder to catch her breath. They’re most likely making a scene, she can feel the stares on her, but she doesn’t find it in herself to care. Let them see, let them talk.

The song ends, leaving place to a slow ballad. August shrugs and opens his arms to her, and she can only put her arms around his neck, cheek against his shoulder, as his hands find her waist.

“Talk to me, Ems.”

“Why do you care so much?”

There’s a pause, August looking for the right answer, the right words. “Because you do.”

 

.

 

Killian finds the flaw in that beautiful plan of theirs from the moment he steps into the ballroom: he doesn’t know anyone and has no idea how to mingle with nobles who’ve known each other all their lives. Sure, he has spotted Emma in a heartbeat, sitting alone by the other side of the room, her bodyguard not that far away. If he looks carefully, he can even see the little lady-in-waiting dancing with some lord.

That’s it. There are the only three people he knows: one he’s avoiding and two who have better things to do.

Thankfully the waitress has rum and she pours him a drink. He leans against the wall, as if the shadows could hide him for an hour or so until he decides he had enough and goes back to his tent. It sounds like a nice plan, actually – better than the first one.

That is, until a man comes to sit next to Emma. Killian can’t stop staring then, at how close their bodies are, at the smile on her lips and laughs on her tongue, obviously comfortable and amused. His heart would fall in his stomach if this one weren’t already in knots, and yet he finds himself unable to look away. Maybe it’s all he needs, the proof that someone else cares about her, so he can forget.

If only it were that easy.

It’s not, it’s just painful, jealousy pumping in his veins and numbing his mind – or maybe that’s the rum, he isn’t that much of a drinker. She dances with him, laugh with him, and Killian wonders when playfully singing to her became so much more, when she bewitched him without him noticing.

(When he fell, hard, never to recover.)

He doesn’t think twice, doesn’t think at all, before abandoning his glass on the nearby table and making his way through the crowd of dancers to tap on the other man’s shoulder. If he’s surprised, the man doesn’t show it – neither does she, only raising an eyebrow at him.

“May I?”

They share a look, the kind of look conveying a silent conversation, before Emma nods. Sharply, may he add, but it’s enough for the other man to step aside. So Killian bows to her, one hand behind his back.

“Your Highness.”

If looks could kill…

Still, she’s polite and well-mannered enough to put her hand in his, her other one settling on his shoulder. She keeps distance between them, a striking contrast with how close she was to the other man not one minute before. Her eyes never meet his.

“Is it all you have to say?” he finally asks after minutes of awkward silence.

Her laugh is bitter and hollow, her eyes cold when she glares at him. “You haven’t talked to me in two months but I should entertain you now?”

The ice in her voice matches the ice in her eyes, and Killian can do nothing if taking a deep breath. He deserves it but it still stings, how harsh she can be, far from her playfulness weeks ago.

“Can we talk in private? Please?”

“Why in private? Are you so afraid of my public status?”

That stings too.

“ _Yes_.”

His honest answer takes her by surprise, eyes widening slightly. She looks around her, quickly, before grabbing him by the wrist. He finds himself outside of the ballroom in the blink of an eye, then in a smaller empty room. There are only a few candles, the dim orange light barely enough for him to look at her face.

“What is wrong with you?” she yells, hitting his shoulder with the flat of her hand.

He’s too stunned by such a gesture to reply at first, staring at her with what must probably be a mix of surprise and awe. She must notice, for her cheeks turn a shade of red that not even the lack of light can hide.

“You’re a princess! I can’t… It wouldn’t be… I just can’t!”

“ _Of course you can_! Do you think all those idiots back there wait for the permission to court me? Why couldn’t you?”

_Because I’m a fraud_ is what he wants to say. But he can’t, not to her, not to anybody. Actually, he can’t say anything at all, heart beating strong and fast in his chest, almost painfully. It is so loud she probably can hear it too, and it numbs his mind a bit, a delightful headache. Because he isn’t stupid, he can line between her lines, can hear the _please, seduce me_ she isn’t saying. She looks as angry as one can be but it’s still there, in her eyes, in the annoyed little pout she gives him.

It’s beautiful and frightening and wrong wrong _wrong_.

“This isn’t proper,” he finally manages to mutter.

“Why? Am I not good enough for you? Are your standards in women as high as that horse of yours?”

He’s never been more afraid of a woman in his life before, even when taking Ruby holding a red-hot sword into account. He can only stutter some lame excuse of a sentence because how can – how could she – why –

It doesn’t make sense. Nothing makes sense with her, not the way he feels, not the way she looks at him. As if she doubts herself, as if she could be anything but perfect in someone’s eyes. Doesn’t she see it is quite the contrary? That she is too good, too perfect for him and he can’t afford the heartache of even dreaming of being with her. That’s she a queen-to-be while he’s only a knight in disguise. He can’t have feelings for her, shouldn’t even allow himself to talk to her.

Because it is dangerous.

Because _she_ is dangerous. With her wit and her smiles and the way she turned his whole world upside down by simply looking at him. He’d gleefully be hers but she would never be his.

She interprets his silence the wrong way.

“All right then. Come back to me when I’ll finally be worthy of your time.”

She leaves the room, runs, flees, and he doesn’t have a chance to react, to reply. He’s left alone in a too dark, too empty room with a too big too lonely heart.


	6. chapter 5

By the time Killian goes back to the camp, only Ruby sits by the fire, draped in her crimson cape, with his chest plate on her lap and a cloth in her hand. She has fairly quickly taken the habit of cleaning his armour, and he lets her do if only because she can find flaws in the metal more efficiency – she works on it immediately, as not to repeat the unfortunate event that was his joust with the king. With a sigh, he sits by her side, tempted to just fall asleep right there and forget everything. No such luck, though.

“You’re back early, lover boy.”

She doesn’t raise her head from her work, and he’s grateful for that. He remains silent and, instead, grabs the saddle next to him, along with a small can of grease and a cloth, cleaning the leather in methodical motions. They stay in companionable silence for a while, both focused on their handwork, Killian lost in his thoughts. His mind still buzzes with Emma’s reproaches and accusations, with the look in her eyes before leaving him, and his heart jolts painfully in his chest.

It was only supposed to be a scam, only supposed to be their meal ticket until they could do something else, only…

It wasn’t supposed to become that complicated.

“We’re heading to Midas’ kingdom next, right?” Ruby asks, to which Killian only hums in reply. “If you win, maybe we’ll have enough money to make you a new armour. One that fits you.”

They all know Midas’ tournament is one of those with the biggest prizes, and of course Killian hopes to win it, if only because they wouldn’t have to worried about eating for the next decade, but Ruby’s proposition still surprises him. She’s been travelling with them, yes, and sharing their tent, but always working for other lords, always working on her own. That she wants to spend hours, days even, of her time to help him, and apparently without asking anything in return… It’s almost too good to be true.

She puts the chest plate on the floor and takes the helmet, only glancing at him then. “Oh, come on, don’t look so stunned!” She playfully hits his shoulder with the helmet before going back to her cleaning. “You know I favour you over those sniffy knights.”

A smirk curls up his lips as he pushes her back, shoulder against shoulder. “I knew you were warming up to me, Red. It’s only bloody time.”

“Too bad I’m not going for men whose heart is already taken.”

He sobers up immediately, all playfulness disappearing from his face in less that a second. Of course Ruby, always the observant one, doesn’t miss the shift in his mood.

“You screw up, didn’t you?”

He only whimpers at that because, yeah, there’s no other way to put it. Ruby replies with a laugh, but still pats his arm in what he guesses to be pity and mockery at its finest. Great. Let the blacksmith laugh at you while you drown in your own sorrows. Just great.

“There is still plenty of time to win her heart. At least three more months and…”

“But what’s the point?” She looks up at him, frowning in confusion, which only makes him sigh loudly. “She’s a princess. _The_ princess. I don’t mind reaching for the stars, but one has to draw a line at some point.”

“So now you care about social classes? I’m pretty sure you were supposed to draw the line at _pretending to be someone you’re not_. Still, here we are.”

He can only stare at the brunette as her sarcasm hits him right in the face – damn those woman and their strong head, seriously.

“Now you listen carefully, Jones. Whatever you did tonight, you are going to apologize and be your handsome lovesick self to her until she forgives you. You are going to win the king’s tournament for her, and you are going to ask for her hand. Because you deserve the happy ending, and you are going to reach the stars and your low birth cannot stop you. Your lineage cannot take true love away from you. Is that clear?”

His eyes widen at the seriousness in her voice, the fire in her eyes as she stares at him. They haven’t talked much about their pasts, because it is easiest that way, but it suddenly makes him wonder what happened to her – he knows her husband died, but that’s about it. Still, a smile creeps on his lips at how encouraging she sounds and, not for the first time, he wonders what he did to find such loyal friends along the way.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.”

And, with that, Ruby goes back to her word, polishing his helmet until she sees her reflexion in the silvery metal. When his job is finally done, he stands up and stretches, his muscles screaming in agony after the long day his body went through, his eyes prickling with sleep.

“You comin’?”

Ruby raises her eyes to the sky, the full moon casting its dim light on her face as her lips curl up into a small dreamy smile. “No. Not yet.”

Killian laughs softly. “At least be silent. People still speak of the howling from next week.”

 

.

 

They make it to Midas’ kingdom by the end of the week, and it is so different from what they are used to that Killian doesn’t want to believe it at first. Usually, a large empty field is offered for the knights to settle in tents. Not here. Instead, each is given a small cottage and a place in the sables of the horse, with a warm meal and even warmer water for a bath.

It is more comfort that Killian ever had in his life.

Graham lets himself fall in the bed, face first, as soon as they enter the room, and the water is dark with dirt and sweat when they’re all done cleaning themselves – it was agreed that Ruby would go first, and she marvels at how clean her hair is for the rest of the night.

“As far as curses go,” Jefferson says, “being able to turn everything to gold doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.”

They can only agree, especially after deciding to walk down the streets of the little town. Ever the poorer don’t look that poor, all lacking the hollow cheeks and dry skin that come with malnutrition. Instead, everyone looks as happy and healthy as one can be, and Killian can barely hide his jealousy – if only things could be that easy in all the kingdoms, if only they had had that easy a life.

He shares the bed with Graham that night, sleeping back to back like when they were wee ones in a small room of Sir Maurice’s castle, and it’s his first good night of sleep since his last encounter with Emma. It doesn’t stop him from feeling anxious and nauseous the following morning, getting ready for the tournament, as he knows she will be in the grandstand as always – he isn’t quite ready to face her just yet.

But his eyes only find an empty seat at King Milas’ right side during the opening ceremony, and he forces himself not to panic. It may have nothing to do with him, really. She is a princess, she probably has better things to do that attending each and every jousting tournament there is.

It is only a coincidence.

His heart still drops in his stomach, as all hopes of making it up to her vanish with each passing second. She is not here. Neither are her lady-in-waiting and her guard. She is not here and he has no idea when he will be able to see her again. _If_ he will be able to see her again.

He has no idea when he became so dependent of her presence.

 

.

 

The other tournaments were (almost too) easy to win. This one is not. Killian blames it on the higher prize and knights thirsty for gold and glory, and not on the fact that his determination to impress a certain someone is gone. Still, he is determined to win, if only for the security the gold could offer them – Jefferson, more than anyone, needs it. They all do.

But the knights are fearless and their lances breathtakingly painful – which, really, only adds to the challenge. He nearly falls down his horse at some point, and Ruby has to run to repair his armour between two games, but he makes his way to the top anyway. Killian is aware of the glares the other knights throw at him, especially with how many tournaments he won before this one, but he doesn’t find it in himself to care – not when he meets the infamous Robin Hood and becomes fast friends with him.

Which is all the more ironic as they end in the final round against each other. They grin when their eyes meet after each broken lances, close to laughing every time, mischief in their eyes. It’s the most fun Killian had in months, perhaps even years, and it makes his victory – a stroke of luck, really – all the sweetest. Robin accepts his defeat easily, with a bow and a smirk.

Killian is vaguely aware of his friend’s screams and laughs by his horse’s side, of Jefferson’s almost hysterical pats on his leg, as his eyes search for her until he remembers she isn’t there. His smile falters and the victory turns bittersweet.

 

.

 

He places ink and paper in front of Victor with a smile and his best imploring eyes, to which the blond man only replies by an eye roll, even before he asks, “Be my script, please.”

Killian knows his letters, learnt them when Sir Maurice took him in, but his handwriting is sloppy at best – Victor’s is elegant and beautiful, much more fitting for what he as in mind.

They’re all in the little room, packing to leave Midas’ kingdom the following morning, yet only the sound of feather against paper can be heard as Killian dictates the words turned letter.

 

_My dearest Lady Swan,_

_There is not a day that has gone by that I didn’t think of you. I have seen many a face yet yours is the only my eyes seek in the crowd, leaving an emptiness in my heart that only your presence could fill. Not a single forest can compete with the green of your eyes and even Milas’ purest gold looks pale when one saw your hair. I miss the sight of you, but I miss you even more. Every day away from you is a wasted day; I would gladly have my heart ripped from my chest than go longer with your absence. Surely it would be less painful than my current state._

_I will next compete in Sherwood and hope that our paths will cross then. Know that I will look for you and shall despair if you decide to miss yet another tournament. Also know that my first words for you will be of apology for my behaviour and bad form._

_Until then, I will see you at night, for my dreams are only of you and your beautiful smile. Look at the moon each evening and know that I will look too, thinking of you and counting the days until we are reunited._

_With all the love that I possess, I remain yours,_

_Killian._

 

“Killian?” Victor repeats incredulously.

Killian shakes his head, a painful reminder that he can’t be quite as sincere with Emma as he wishes to be, and the lie feels heavy after opening his heart to her in such fashion. He sighs then, and chooses another way to end the letter.

 

_With all the love that I possess, I remain yours,_

 

“The pirate of your heart,” Emma whispers, surprised by the tenderness in her voice as it falters with emotions. The man, she thinks he introduced himself as Jefferson, hands her a handkerchief that she presses against her nose if only to help her find some countenance again.

“Sir James was hoping for a reply,” the man tells her, and Emma finally raises her head to look at him in the eyes, a smile on her lips despite her watery eyes.

 

.

 

Jefferson arrives at Sherwood barely an hour after them, and Killian’s only reflex as his friend jumps from the horse is an eager “Did you see her?”

“Yes! Oh, you should see her, she grew up since last time and…” His sentence ends in a laugh at Killian’s murderous glare. “ _Yes_ , I saw the princess too, don’t worry.”

“What did she say? Did she read the letter? Is she coming?”

He can almost feel the smirks of Ruby and Graham behind him, but all he’s able to focus on at the moment is Jefferson and the answers he has. And, of course, his friend looks as smug as one can get, ready to taunt him for long excruciating minutes. All Killian can do then is bite his cheek and wait, clenching his fists not to punch Jefferson in the jaw.

With a final laugh – _bloody idiot_ – Jefferson sighs a “Yes she’s coming” only to wince at Killian’s sudden burst of laughter. “I have a token for you, too.”

The words effectively stop him from dancing of happiness, and Killian guesses he might look like an overexcited puppy, but he doesn’t care – at least, there isn’t a single knight around to witness his madness. “What is it? Give it to me!”

Delicately, Jefferson opens his travelling jacket to reach the inside pocket – Killian’s laugh rings loud and clear at the long white feather his friend gives him.

This bloody Swan, she’ll be the death of him.


	7. chapter 6

“Emma!”

She barely sets foot on the ground that strong arms engulf her into a breath-taking hug, and she can only laughs in reply as she pats the man’s back awkwardly.

“Little John!” she says with another laugh as the man takes a step back to look at her with a kind smile, his large hand on her chin. She always feels like a child around him and his impressive stature, and funnily remembers being afraid of him, of all of them, when she was barely five.

“It’s been so long, little princess,” he says with this thick accent of his, and she can only nod in agreement. The last time she got to spend more than a few hours with the Merry Men, she was barely fifteen. It feels like a lifetime ago, when she was still free from her royal responsibilities.

“Finally decided to join our band of outlaws? It was only time.”

She spins to face the newcomer, a grin on her lips as her eyes fall on him. Same old cape, same old quiver, open arms ready to welcome her in a hug, Robin grins back at her – she doesn’t hesitate before quite literally jumping in his arms.

“Well, that’s unladylike.” She replies with a slap on the shoulder that makes him laugh. “Come on, then, I’ll show you to your royal quarters.”

Nottingham is only a ten-minute ride away from the Merry Men’s camp, and she would be welcomed there like the princess she is, yet she likes it better with Robin and his friends, feels more secure by his side. So does Mulan, and Aurora might complain a lot about the lack of comfort but she’s not fooling anyone either. Not to mention that it allows Emma a well-deserve break, allows her to be anything but a princess for a couple of days.

Robin takes her horse’s reins and she follows him to the shack they have prepared for her. Aurora follows, Little John carrying her travelling bags, while Mulan already mingles with the other Marry Men, her laugh clear as bell.

“So, how is your mother?”

“Good as ever. She wanted to come too, but sadly we’ve had some problems with Anton the Giant lately. Hopefully it will be resolved soon enough. She says hello and hopes she’ll see you at the tournament next month.”

“Yes, I will be there. Got to go by the book to earn some gold once in a while.”

Emma can only laugh at that – she and everybody else knows Robin Hood’s reputation, and it is not for nothing that her mother decided to stay with the Merry Men during her years as a fugitive. It is sometimes weird to think the royal family count them among their friends but, well, it is not the most surprising about them.

Robin soon leads them to the shack, opening the door to them. It is small yet cosy, with a bed big enough for the two princesses and a vanity that had to be added in haste for them – it is only a table and a mirror, but more than enough. Aurora sighs deeply as she sits on the bed, tired from their day of riding, and all Emma wants is to do the same.

“Don’t worry about Mulan,” Robin tells her. “You’re safe here.”

She thanks him with a smile before he leaves them to rest before dinner – the sun is already setting and it will be night in an hour or so. Aurora and she clean themselves quickly, washing their face and arms, and Emma decide to trade her riding clothes for a comfortable dress and soft leather boots.

The fire is lit, its flames casting orange shadows on the Merry Men’s faces, by the time they make it to dinner. Little John serves them both a bow of stew and, soon, Roland comes to snuggle against Aurora as songs are sung and stories told. Emma keeps smiling and refuses to go to sleep despite her exhaustion, and Robin has to force her to go to bed when it is starting to get late.

“We don’t want you to look tired in front of your suitors now, do we?”

He says it as a joke, but the smile falters from her lips. Tomorrow. She’ll see him tomorrow.

Aurora is snoring by her side yet Emma can’t find sleep, reading the letter over and over again until the candle go off on its own.

 

.

 

Sherwood is a small town, not even a kingdom of its own, but jousting is an institution here – hence the tournament. The prizes are small, not as prestigious as the ones offered by kings and lords, which means knights fight for glory, not for gold. Which also means that, for some reason foreign to Emma, they get even cockier than usual. She stops counting how many of them promise to win the tournament for her after the fifth one – their words barely reach her ears, and she features her best neutral face, the one that shows her boredom without being excessively rude.

“Lady Swan.”

Her heart misses a beat at the nickname, yet she manages to cool her features as her eyes fall on him, and she congratulates herself for the total control of her emotions. Not even the smallest smile to betray the turmoil inside her. His handsome face is equally neutral, contrasting with the fire in his eyes, and his solemn nod looks stiff and somewhat wrong.

“Lord James.”

She remembers his letter, _my first words for you will be of apology for my behaviour and bad form,_ and guesses that he won’t dare making a scene in front of so many people. Neither will she, for she can feel many eyes on her already and doesn’t need the gossip that would follow a public apology.

“I hope you journey from the castle went well.”

“Yes, indeed. Thank you.”

With another nod, he leans forwards to pat his horse’s neck and, as the beast shakes its mane, something in it catches Emma’s eyes. It is hard not to smile when she notices the white feather braided in the mane, especially when she looks up and he winks at her.

“Will I see you at tonight’s banquet, m’lady?”

Would it be rude to say no? Probably. Yet it would be the truth, as Emma has no plan to spend time with other noblepersons when she can be among the Marry Men. But she reads between the lines, understands what he isn’t saying, so she replies a cryptic “Perhaps”, with an even more mysterious smile. He frowns at her, like he’s able to see she’s lying – it is impossible, she’s too good a liar for that.

He looks away when someone calls after him, and Emma tries no to reach for him like the clingy princess she definitely is _not_.

“Go, lord pirate. We don’t want you to miss your tournament.”

There’s something in his eyes then, equally fascinating and frightening, that tells her he would miss a hundred tournaments if only to stay by her side. She feels her cheeks growing red, her heart beating faster, and nothing she can do changes that. Damn you, traitor of a body.

“I’ll see you later, then.”

He’s already turning his horse around when her mouth decides to betray her too, the words out before she can stop them. “Won’t you swear to win the tournament for me, lord pirate?”

He looks at her above his shoulder, and his face is not longer impassive, mischief back in full swing. “I’m sure you don’t need that from me. From anyone.”

When he leaves, the sound of her laugh follows him.

 

.

 

Ruby makes her way from the bar to their table, two tankards in each hand, purposefully ignoring the stares and catcalls following her. She sets the four mugs on the table as she takes a sit next to Victor, who leans forwards with a conspiracy look and a smirk. The two other men looks interested, and Ruby takes a sip of her drink as they fill her in.

“So, that Robin Hood fellow has won the tournament for the past fifteen years, and people are ready to call him champion once again. Now, those fellows over there,” the blond man say with a nod to another table where five men sit, “are his friends and won’t believe me when I say our Sir James will be the victor this year.”

“Well, fifteen years in a row builds confidence, I guess,” Graham adds, very matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, but we have the advantage of youth, my friends. And Killian hasn’t lost a single tournament yet.”

“So, you want to bet again them?” Ruby asks, only receiving a stare in reply. “Of course you want to bet against them.”

“Fifty golden crowns that Sir James beats Robin Hood.”

“Fifty?” Jefferson chimes in, voice already more high-pitched than usual. “That’s all we’ve got!”

“And that’s very fine by me. I already have enough to buy my own forge.”

“My own house.”

“To live with my daughter.”

Victor stares at them all like they just betrayed him in the worst way possible, dramatically opening mouth and eyes. He meets three blank faces. “Come on, guys! Fifty more crowns would make us rich!”

“Are you afraid for your lordling’s safety, mates?”

They all turn their head to watch the man, one of Robin’s friends, as he sneers at them knowing he touched a sensible cord. Graham’s hand grips the table until the knuckles turn white, a vein is pulsing dangerously on Jefferson’s neck, and Ruby reminds herself that bar fights are, like Killian would say, _bad form_. Only Victor keeps his composure.

“Tell him to go back to his little castle,” the man goes on, “he won’t be able to do much once our Robin is done with him.”

Victor, always ready, replies back immediately, and it leads to an argument that turns many curious heads in their direction. From the corner of her eyes, Ruby sees the bartender fidgeting, as if unsure of what to do if a fight was to happen – but it’s words they’re using as weapons, not fists, and Ruby isn’t the least worried about things getting worse.

That is, until Graham’s fist lands on the table, loudly, startling them all as he stands up to face the Merry Men. “Seventeen golden crowns that Sir James wins the tournament. Are you in or not?”

They all stares at him – that’s twenty crowns they definitely _don’t own_ – but Graham has that look on his face, the one that says he’s dead serious, and probably a little overprotective of his friend – something, Ruby has learnt along the way, that comes from growing together since they were little boys. He holds his hand out to one of Robin’s men, waiting, until the other finally shakes it.

“May the better win.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Graham replies with a dangerous smile. “He will.”

And then, he sits back down and takes a large gulp of his beer as if nothing happened. They all stare at him, then at each other, at a loss for words. It’s Jefferson who finally breaks the silence as he leans closer to his friend.

“You do realise we don’t have the money, don’t you?”

“Let’s hope that Killian wins, then.”

 

.

 

The little camp is awfully silent now that his friends are out of the night, and Killian doesn’t know if he wants to appreciate it or dread it for he is no longer used to loneliness. He keeps himself busy instead, building a fire and taking care of the horses, until they go back. His joust of the day left him sore, craving a good bed already, but going to sleep that early would be ridiculous.

He brushes his horse’s mane delicately, careful not to break the feather as he takes it off and puts it in his pocket. His mind wanders to Emma then, and he wonders if she is at the banquet – if she is looking for him, as he more or less implied he would meet her there. Would she miss him? Would she even notice his absence? He doesn’t dare thinking about it too much, afraid of the answers. So he focuses on the horse instead, keeping his hands busy.

“Don’t you have a squire of that?”

He’s so startled the brush escapes his hand and falls on the ground. When he turns his head, it’s to her smile, visibly amused that she surprised him. His breath catches in his throat then, for she looks lovely in a simple blue gown, her hair loosely falling on her shoulders. She’s a vision, as always, perfectly breathtaking, and he still doesn’t understand how she keeps talking to him, why she keeps wasting her time with him.

“Have you lost your tongue, sir pirate?”

Only then does he realise he’s been staring at her for far too long, and he clears his throat as he comes closer to her – if only he could get rid of that stupid grin, it would be all the better.

“Excuse me, m’lady, I was no longer expecting you.”

“Well, you do own me a formal apology.”

“Ay.” He scratches the back of his neck, looks at her through his lashes. “That I do.”

Still, he remains silent, and they seem perfectly fine staring at each other for a long time. Her smile is soft and her eyes kind, which does nothing to calm his heartbeat, but she is here and that alone means so much. He feels more reckless than he ought to.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour the other day. It was rude and uncalled for. I’m afraid I don’t know my way around beautiful ladies just yet. Well, around you, really.”

The night is falling already, so he isn’t quite sure if he imagines the red on her cheeks or if it is indeed here. He doesn’t imagine her smile, or how she looks away, almost shyly.

“You were wrong about me. I don’t think you’re not worthy of my time. It’s the other way around, really. And yet…”

_Yet you’re letting me woo you for reasons I don’t understand._ He lets her imagine the end of his sentence, not quite ready for big declarations just yet. He would only make a fool of himself, for he has no idea how one is even supposed to woo a princess in the first place. For sure there must be rules, protocols. Perhaps even asking her father’s permission first and… That thought alone is frightening enough for him to stop in his tracks.

So he watches her instead, as she licks her bottom lip while thinking. She’s still not looking at him, as if avoiding his gaze allows her to put some distance between them, and he wonders when exactly he started reading her so well – a skill he obviously didn’t possess during the ball.

She folds her arms against her chest, slowly, making it hard not to focus on that part of her body. Not that hard when she finally turns her head, blue meeting green, and he can read the turmoil in her beautiful eyes.

“Do you know one Sir Lancelot?”

He frowns. “Your father’s captain of the guard?”

“The very same. Do you know of his story?”

Still frowning, he can only shake his head – it’s already a lot that he knows the man’s name and rank, but he barely know a thing about the kingdom’s history, let alone each knight’s personal one.

“When he was still in Camelot, loyal to another king, he fell in love with a woman named Guinevere. Lots of men were courting her then, and she had to make sure his was the purest love of them all.”

He’s starting to understand which way her tale is taking and, for some reason, doesn’t like it that much.

“So she asked him something, some task he had to achieve, to prove his love to her was real and that he would be ready to do anything for her.”

Yes, definitely doesn’t like it at all. He gulps, loudly, and her smile grows bigger as Emma watches his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. She comes closer to him until he can smell her perfume, can almost feels the warmth of her body against his, and all he wants is to lean forwards, to capture her lips and… No.

“You want me to prove my feelings for you.”

“Well, not exactly. I want you to do something no other lord would do for me. Because I want you to realise you deserve my affections when they don’t.”

His mind is racing now, and he isn’t sure if he wants to be scared or impressed by her because, damn, what kind of princess is she exactly. _One that has guts_ , and he didn’t think he could be even more infatuated with her that he already was. But here it is.

And, suddenly, as he remembers their conversation earlier that day, it all makes sense. He wants to slap himself for that piece of provocation he had offered because she is now using it against him, toying with him as if he were nothing but a puppet in her hands.

“You don’t want me to win the tournament for you,” he starts tentatively.

“I want you to lose it for me.”

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Well…” And she’s close, so close, as her cheeks brushes against his, as her voice whispers in his ear. “That’s the whole point, really.”

She steps back, not without kissing his cheek first, a mischievous smile on her face – the smile of a princess who knows she’ll always get what she wants. He just stares at her.

“What kind of princess are you?”

“The kind that wants a pirate to fight for her.”

_A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets_. The words dance in his mind. Oh he will fight. And he will win.

Or, in that case, lose.

The thing he’d do for her…


	8. chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guy were all so concerned about the bet, that's adorable! Here's the last update of the year.

The armour is tighter, close to his chest and arms, like a second skin – it is also much lighter, and it feels strange at best, not wearing all those pounds of metal. Ruby carefully fastens every strap, around his upper arms and his back, his legs. The helmet comes at last, hiding even his neck but leaving him enough room to move, to turn his head.

She smiles at him with a little confident nod, but quickly frowns when she notices his eyes are unsure.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, almost offended already, stubborn proud lass that she is.

“Isn’t it a little… not enough?”

She glares at him just then, the fire in her eyes warmer and more dangerous than the one in her forge – Killian almost takes a step back, just in case. “Because the armour you stole was made centuries ago, it doesn’t mean they’re all like that. It will protect you nonetheless.”

He silently hopes she is right – he will need the protection, and sooner than later if his conversation with Emma the preceding night is to be trusted. Still, it only feels like wearing a leather jacket, light and comfortable, and he can’t help but fear for his life, knowing how painful a lance to the chest can be. But Ruby is looking at him stubbornly, lips pressed into a thin line, and all he does is sighing.

“Fine. But if I die, I’ll come back to personally haut you.”

She grins then, slyly. “Just win, it’ll bring me more customers.”

Win… He isn’t sure about that anymore.

 

.

 

Roland sits on Aurora’s lap, bouncing excitingly as he waits for the tournament to begin – it had taken a long time for Robin to finally accept defeat and bring the four year-old with them, only to have him swear he would behave himself. Emma had stopped counting the stares thrown at them minutes ago, as if people couldn’t believe princesses would mingle with lowborn brigands. She wants to scoff, to tell them Robin is better than the whole of them, but propriety forces her to ignore them and their whispers. Let them talk, she thinks, it’s all they can do.

“When does it start? Is my papa fighting now?” he asks, little high-pitched voice having Emma smile, especially with the way Aurora has to wrap her arms around his body for him not to fall. This is not a child, this is a ball of raw energy.

“Do you want me to take him?” she asks her friend, who only shakes her head.

“That’s all right, I can handle him.”

But Emma notices how the other princess’s jaw tightens, how she keeps staring at some point to her left – where Prince Phillip is getting ready, climbing on his horse and putting his helmet on. Emma feels bad for a second, if only because his adversary is Sir James – she’s yet to see him lose, and understands why anyone would be nervous to fight against him by now. Only… Only she hopes, secretly, that the prince has nothing to fear. Not today.

Going against her suitor’s chivalry and honour was a bold move to say the least, and she wonders if he will actually act as she said – she hopes he will, if only by arrogance and selfishness, but wouldn’t be that disappointed if he didn’t, for his stubbornness, matching hers, has to be what she likes most about him. Along with the blatant flirtatious tone he always has, of course.

She smiles and laughs at his herald’s presentation, always so colourful and dramatic, effectively grabbing the crowd’s attention. She knows those facts to be fake, of course, and not many really are fooled into believing them, but it is entertaining enough every time. He bows then, accepting the round of applause with a flick of the wrist as he trots back to his liege with a grin.

Emma holds her breath at the horn announcing the beginning of the joust then, watching in nervous anticipation as the horses gallop toward one another. Her knight’s lance moves at the last moment, slightly to the right, missing its target while the prince’s lance crashes against his chest. The terrible sound has everybody gasp in surprise, but she knows it to be more about him losing that it is about him hurting.

“What is he doing?” Mulan asks behind her, not actually looking for an answer.

 

.

 

“What are you doing?” Jefferson asks, a hysterical yell, as Killian comes back to them. So hysterical that his hair is tousled from running both hands in it with all the nervousness he can gather, and Killian would laugh at him were the situation less dramatic.

“I’m losing.”

“You’re…” Even more hysterical scream then, as Jefferson’s eyes go from Killian to Graham, as if looking for the only sane man around. But Graham looks as lost for words as he is, and only hands Killian another lance.

He’s back for the second round in not time, leaving his friends to glare at Graham – he holds his hands up in surrender, but his nervous smile doesn’t fool anyone.

“I’m going to kill you,” Ruby says, “then kill him, and then kill you again.”

 

.

 

Roland’s gleeful laugh matches her when, during the second round, Sir James misses his target once again. Surely people will start wondering then, because it is rather obvious that he is doing this on purpose by now – and they will rather talk about the _why_ than the how. But she doesn’t find it in herself to care, not yet, breathless little laughs bubbling out of her chest that she hides by pressing her fingers to her lips.

_He likes her_. Not that she had her doubts before, the look in his eyes enough to make her heart beat faster, but actions have always spoken louder than words according to her. And what a way to prove it! _He likes me_ , she thinks again with another laugh, _and he will fight for me_. The novelty leaves her breathless and dizzy – many a lord has wooed her before, but never wholeheartedly, never for her but for her title, her dowry. Never lords who interested her in return, who didn’t bore her after five minutes in their company. She can read it in his eyes, his smile, how he likes her for who she was – equally scared and impressed by her title, yet discarding it with a flick of the wrist as it didn’t matter much. In his mind, she is Emma, just Emma – someone she only ever was with August until then. Her heart swells at the thought, cheeks turning to a light shade of pink.

“Is it because of you?” Aurora asks, voice barely more than a whisper as she leans against Emma’s shoulder not to be heard by others.

She grins at her friend as she corrects, “It is _for_ me.”

A little pout forms on Aurora’s as she takes it in, thinks it through, before they curl up into a smile. “I’m happy for you, then.”

Emma grins back.

 

.

 

The joust ends with a lance to his shoulder that has him almost falling off his horse but mostly groaning in pain. He bites on his lip not to yell, too proud in his defeat, until he feels the metallic taste of blood on his tongue.

When back to their tent, Ruby can only go so fast to get him rid of his armour, and then Victor is probing his shoulder, fingers digging in his skin that finally have him cry in pain. He refuses to let the tears roll on his cheeks, because his honour may be bruised but it is still here and ever growing.

“It’s dislocated,” Victor finally says. “I’ll have to put it back and it will hurt, but you’ll feel better right after.”

“Aye. Whatever you say.”

Victor is kind enough to pick up a piece of wood that he puts in Killian’s mouth – even if he bites on it, it does nothing to reassure him, and he already braces himself for the worst, eye close and teeth digging in the wood. He feels Victor’s hands on him, one of his shoulder and one on his upper arm, and hears the deep breath he takes – then everything becomes white pain as he muffles another scream, ears buzzing furiously and brain going off for a second or two.

The pain is gone shortly after that, and he tentatively rolls his shoulder – it still hurts a bit, and he’s sure he’ll be sore for the next couple of days, but it is already far better.

“Are you feeling good now?” Jefferson asks.

“Aye.”

“ _Good_.”

The punch hits him in the jaw before he has time to realise what is going to happen, and Killian stumbles back, more shocked than hurt. Still, his hand rises to his chin and, when he spits, he’s not surprised to see a bit of blood here. He glares at his friend but doesn’t say anything, nor does he move – mostly because he knows how much he deserves it.

“I hope spreading her legs is blooding worth it, you moron.”

Killian reacts immediately, and isn’t all that surprised when Graham grabs him almost as quickly – years of forcing him not to start fights in the pubs, not to put himself in reckless danger. No amount of struggling allows him to escape his friend’s hold on him, and he’s left glaring at Jefferson, equally held back by Victor.

“Calm down, Killian. Right now.”

Killian ignores Graham’s words, obviously. “Don’t talk about her that way. Don’t you dare, Jeff.” He keeps struggling against his friend’s arms, only manages to make a fool of himself. “Just because you knocked up the first women you saw doesn’t mean…”

“ _Killian!_ ” Graham’s tone surprised them all in its harshness, successfully quieting Killian in an instant – he’s actually quite certain he’s going to get slapped, right now, for Graham may be the softer one but he is also the most dangerous when angry.

It settles an eerie silence among them, Killian and Jefferson still glaring at each other like one look could kill, and they’re all startled when a soft cough interrupts them. As one, the five of them turns their head to the newcomer, and Jefferson can’t help but hiss a threatening “You!” that equally startles her.

Killian is forced to jump back in his knight persona in a second, effectively and finally getting rid of Graham’s grip on him. “Watch your tongue with the lady!”

Emma’s eyes go back and forth between the two men, surprised at first, a frown slowly appearing on her face – Killian’s breath catches in his throat, hoping against hope that she won’t jump to conclusions too quickly. She settles on looking at him then, confused pout turning into small smile.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Aye. Of course.”

He silently praises Ruby as she takes it as their cue to leave, forcing the other men outside the tent with the promise of free beers and a hot meal for lunch. Silence falls back between Killian in the princess then, as she comes closer to him, almost shyly.

“Are you well?” She tries to brush her hand against his shoulder, but a hiss from him stops her, remorse written all over her pretty face.

“I’ve seen worse. Don’t worry about me, m’lady.”

“I apologize, I didn’t want you to be harmed.”

He chuckles, but there is coldness in the sound. “Maybe you should have thought twice before asking me to lose, then.” And then, realising how harsh his tone is, he adds, “I did it willingly anyway.”

She flashes him her best smile, dazzling in its beauty, eyes sparkling and joyful, and she comes even closer, until he feels her hot breath on his skin. His fingers tingles with the need to take her in his arms – they are alone in a tent with no one to see, after all – but his manners prevent him from moving and doing something bold. That is, until she leans against him, and he gasps loudly at her kiss on his shoulder, heart racing and aching for her.

“Thank you, my brave pirate.”

Something snaps in him and, bloody hell bold he will be anyway. He cups her head in his hands, thumbs grazing against the skin of her cheekbones, and he has to bite his bottom lip not to claim hers as his own. “Anything for you, my lady Swan.”

And maybe he will never get used to the way she smiles at him, but he doesn’t want to, wants her to smile at him until the end of days – he knows it is not something he should wish but, if only for an instant, he lets himself hope for a future that will never be his.

“How many more matches do you have today?”

“Two.” He smiles at the little face she makes then, as she glances at his hurt shoulder. “Do you want me to lose those ones as well?”

“No,” she replies, and laughs as he sighs in relief. “I’ll see you then, I suppose.”

She laughs once more as she takes a step back only for him to follow, and presses a hand against his chest with a shake of the head. His whole body is aching to follow her, or to have her in his arms – to have her on that bed behind him, but no, he can’t allow himself to think like that, she’s still very much a princess. So he forces himself to nod, even with a sad pout and imploring eyes that have her smile.

“Will I see you at tonight’s banquet?” he says, not caring how eager he might sound, how desperate he is to see her again soon.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

The last remnants of his smile disappear from his face then, and he feels his heart dropping in his chest at her blatant rejection. The shift in his emotions must be obvious, for Emma’s smile grows softer, as something else, entirely new, shines in her eyes.

“I actually am staying with the Merry Men during the tournament. They’re old friends of the family and their company is far more pleasant that all those noblemen.” She takes another step back, stops again as if hesitating, before adding, “Their camp is at the edge of the woods. To the west.”

And then, much like the preceding night, she is gone. He blinks, hard, as her words make their way to his head – he’s running after her then, finding her walking alongside her lady bodyguard, and she turns around at the sound of his footsteps.

“Is that an invitation?”

She bites her lip into a smile but leaves him without an answer, leaves him to run a hand through his hair and sigh, utterly perfectly smitten.


	9. chapter 8

Killian didn’t know what to expect but, hearing Emma say ‘camp’ hadn’t prepared him for what he actually finds by the time the tournament is over for the day and he decides to join the Merry Men. It is everything but a simple camp, all in little wooden shacks and elaborated tree houses, men gathering around a giant bonfire and horses packed in a paddock. As he looks around him – the cheering and the laughing and people loudly calling after each other – Killian feels more like entering a little village than he does a campsite, not a single tent in view.

He turns his head to Graham but the question dies on the tip of his tongue when Robin comes to greet them, beer in hand and grin on his lips. “James! Emma told me you’d come, glad you made it!” He pats Killian’s arm, strongly enough to have him miss a step, then wraps his arm around his shoulders like they are long friends and smiles at the others. “Go on, have a drink, something to eat. Do as you please, there are no social distinctions among the Merry Men.”

Robin slurs a bit, proof that the beer most likely isn’t his first one, but it’s enough to have Victor mingle among the crowd, quickly followed by Jefferson – more to put some distance between him and Killian than to actually make friends, probably. Still, Graham and Ruby stay by his sides, as confused as he feels.

Seeing his reluctance, Robin taps on his shoulder once more, and Killian really stumbles this time with a curse under his breath. “Hey laddy, loosen up! Nobody will tell the Queen about your not-so-knightly behaviour tonight. Well, maybe she will.”

He points at Emma with his beer as she appears out of nowhere, and she stares at him with her eyes opened wide for a second or two, before rolling her eyes. “Of course. Of the two of us, I’m the one whispering gossips in my mother’s ear.” And, with a sarcastic little smile for Robin, she leaves as quickly as she appeared, and Killian watches her go with her name whispered on his lips.

As if it would be enough to have her back next to him.

 

.

 

The sky is dark by the time he sits by the fire with a beer in his hand and Emma’s bodyguard – who, he knows now, is called Mulan – by his side. Her sword is gone and she seems less severe with a smile on her lips, as she tells him of her adventures before working for the Royals – tells him of her own kingdom and how she saved it, of her victories and exploits.

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re not jousting then,” he replies.

“I like a fair fight,” and he laughs as her confidence and (well-deserved) arrogance. Yes, she’s doing all the knights a favour by not fighting against them, by letting them pretend they’re skilled and talented with a stick of wood in their hand.

Still, he wonders how you can go from saving a kingdom to following a princess like her own shadow – he wonders but knows better than to ask. Just as he doesn’t ask why she isn’t by Emma’s side right now, what is so safe about the Merry Men’s camp when even attending a simple tournament deserves Mulan’s protection. It is a story he is not privy of, he is well aware of that.

It would be easier for him, thought, if Emma could be by Mulan’s side right now.

And maybe he’s not so subtle in the way he looks around him every thirty seconds, just in case she were to make an appearance, because Mulan’s lips curl into a mocking grin, and he rolls his eyes at her.

“I’ve seen a lot of her suitors in the past, but never quite like you.”

“What do you mean?”

“So…” She dwells on the sound, looking for the right words. “Like someone playing with fire, close enough to feel the warmth but not close enough to get burnt. Never close enough.”

He wants to tell her she’s wrong – he got burnt the moment his eyes found her face – but there is something in her voice that prevents him from doing so, some longing he knows all too well. “Who’s your fire?” he asks quietly, and she doesn’t have to answer with words – her eyes drifting to the other princess, who plays with Robin’s son a few feet away from them, is enough of an answer. His smile is small and sad when he looks at Mulan again – they have more in common than he thought, both know the heartache of loving someone out of your reach, of reaching for the starts only to touch the clouds.

He could be friends with her, he realises, the same way camaraderie grew between him and Ruby – broken souls with broken hearts, understanding each other.

“Mulan, don’t let the pirate bother you.”

He watches, dumbfound, as Emma sits by his other side, folding her arms on her knees. It takes him a couple of second before he notices her dress, a simple white thing that sticks to her like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination. He tries to be subtle in the way he swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, and forces himself not to stare for too long, looking up at her eyes – they sparkle with mirth and something else, darkening the green, and he knows he wasn’t subtle at all.

Some distant part of his brain wonders if she did that on purpose.

He dares not hope.

“Yes, you’re right,” Mulan replies. “I’ll let him bother you instead.” She stands up with a nod for Killian and walks away, only stopping when he calls after her. She turns around, slowly, to look back at him.

“Better getting burnt than staying cold for the rest of your life.”

She seems to ponder his words, coming to her own conclusions with a tilt of the head, before walking away again. Killian feels Emma’s eyes on him then, can almost hear her screaming at him to give some explanations about what can only be a riddle to her. He only smiles at her, coyly ignoring the curiosity in her eyes as he changes the subject before she even asks.

“It is so kind of you to finally spend some time with me. Ignoring your own guests is bad form, m’lady.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” _Touché_. “How is your shoulder?”

“Better.” He rolls it for emphasis. “Still a bit sore but nothing a good night of sleep can’t cure.”

“Who’s to say you’ll get a good night of sleep tonight?”

Her voice is low and deep, her eyes sparkling with the fire in front of them, and he can only whimper softly at the many idea hidden between her words and in her knowing grin. “ _Emma_ ,” he says, a warning and a plea, and he somewhat notices he never said her name before – it rolls easily on his tongue, and he wants to say it again, for the sake of it.

Which he does only seconds later, definitely a warning this time, as she takes his hand and stands up. He’s almost forced to follow, up and closer to the woods, darkness enveloping them now that they are away from the fire. She slips into the shadows, taking him with her until she leans against an oak tree, letting go her his hand to fold her arms behind her back in a way he can only describe as _impish_. She smiles with her bottom lip stuck between her lips, eyes wide and oh so dark.

It hits Killian just then that, behind the armour of arrogance and witty comebacks, she is nothing but a young woman who’s been locked in a castle for way too long and who starves for adventures and life. She’s like a caged animal and, he realises how ironical that may be by now, ready to burn herself too – on life, if not on love. On experiences every girl should have but she doesn’t, stuffed with manners and protocols and eyes on her at all times.

But here, in the darkness of the forest with only trees as witnesses, in a camp of free men and brigands, she lets the mask fall – she allows herself to be Emma, nothing else. Just a girl in front of the boy who likes her, just a girl seeking for normality, for anything that doesn’t come with her title.

And who is he to refuse her that honour?

She comes closer, almost timidly, hand finding his cheek. He leans into the touch, the warmth of her skin, as his eyes close on their own accord. Her breath is hot and tickling against his skin as she leans against him, her other hand pressed against his chest, closer and closer until her lips brushes against his with a tiny gasp that has him smile, until she finally kisses him, slow and tentative.

He lets her take the lead, lets her settle her own rhythm, mouth dancing against his, fingers finding his hair as he wraps his arms around her small waist, draws her closer to him until her chest is against his, until he can feel her flush against him.

And then her tongue touches his mouth and something snaps in him, forgetting that she is a princess and thus must be taken care of – he doesn’t care anymore, not as he claims her mouth, as the kiss grows deeper and more passionate, small moans and low grunts as his hold on her grows stronger. He wants her against him, and the dress is thin but not thin enough, his wandering hands not daring to touch her where he wants, fingers tingling for hot skin and bare flesh. He wants her whole, wants more than she will ever agree to give and, when they finally breaks away to breathe, he takes a step back. Then another, for good measure.

“We should stop here.”

His voice sounds breathless and broken, and all he wants is too kiss her again. She runs a hand in her hair, heavy blonde locks falling in front of her eyes, and he has to force himself to look away and not touch her again, not play with her hair and let his fingers caress her shoulders. The sigh feels heavy on his lips.

“Yes. You’re right.” And she’s just as flustered as he feels, yet Killian watches as it only takes her a few second to regain her composure, Emma slipping away to let place to the princess once again.

Well, not entirely, for her cheeks are still too red and her eyes still too bright, but she handles that better than he ever will, knows how to hide her feelings behind her pretty mask – he wants her not to, wants to be privy of the turmoil of emotions on her face, but has no right to ask for such an intimate thing.

She brushes the wrinkles away from the skirt of her dress, takes care of the mess that is her hair, with delicate motions of the hands. Still, when she looks back at him, it’s with kind eyes and a gentle smile, and she leans against him in a quick kiss.

“Let’s go back before they come looking for me.”

He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he were to be found in a compromising position with the princess – surely Robin is kind, but not _that_ kind. Death would be the only sentence, he presumes, just for laying his hands on her, for assuming he could touch her without facing the consequences.

But, as he follows her back to the fire, Killian wonders if there would be sweetest death, if this scam was fate choosing his end without him noticing. Surely there are worst ways to die and, as Robin forces Emma to dance and the Merry Men starts playing instruments, he thinks another kiss, not matter how deadly, would be much welcomed.


	10. chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next couple of chapters will be all about the two idiots falling in love, so enjoy the useless fluff!

Emma was right – Killian doesn’t get a good night of rest.

The musicians play a lively tune, bolder than the slow melodies played during the few official banquets he attended, while others clap their hands in rhythm and one even sings along, some lyrics Killian doesn’t know. The cheerfulness brings a smile to his lips, especially when Princess Aurora grabs Graham’s wrists and forces him to dance with her – Killian can’t help but laugh at the panic in his friend’s eyes, especially when the princess explains the steps. But his chuckle dies on his lips because someone taps on his shoulder and he raises his eye to find Emma, looking at him with an easy smile and determined look.

He shakes his head and she replies by a nod in a wordless conversation, forcing him up. She places one of his hands on her waist, slips the other in hers, and settles in a fast pace that he barely manages to follow. Its wildness leaves them breathless and laughing and, not for the first time, Killian wonders why she never seems to act like the princess she is.

The moon is high in the sky by the time the musicians stop playing, its silvery light casting eerie shadows on everyone’s face – it is more than time to go back to town and have some sleep if they don’t want to miss the tournament. It takes some convincing to have Ruby and Victor following him – they keep dancing even without music, too enraptured in each other – and some kicking in the shin to wake Jefferson up form his drunken sleep, but they still manage not to let anyone behind.

He doesn’t miss how Emma lingers around the fire, even with Aurora gone to bed an hour before, and Killian walks back to her, if only to say goodnight.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” she says, almost too softly.

“I’ll be the one on the horse.”

Her chuckle is quiet too, and she quickly looks around her to make sure they are alone before she leans against him in a soft kiss, hand on the nap of his neck. “Goodnight, pirate,” she whispers against his mouth.

He smiles. “Sleep well, my love.”

He forces himself to move, to leave – he’ll see her in the morning, after all – but not without one last look over his shoulder. She’s still staring at him, bottom lips between her lips in that way that makes her look so young yet so sinful and he can’t help it, he winks. He sees more than hears her laugh, and then she leaves too.

The taste of her lips lingers on him until the following morning.

 

.

 

She winks at him before his first match and he almost loses it because he grins like a fool the entire time.

 

.

 

“So.” Robin lets himself fall next to her by the fire, sweaty from his training at the sword, and she closes her book to look at him, all innocent smiles and soft eyes – she doesn’t buy it for a second. “I would have thought you’d be more willing to sword fight.”

“Not today,” she replies simply as she opens her book again, hoping it would be enough. It never is.

“Something on your mind, princess? Or perhaps _someone_.”

She freezes, not daring to move for a moment or two, already fearing the worst – did he see them by the fire or in the woods? Which one would be worse, a stolen kiss in plain sigh or a hidden one? Her heart beats faster when, with a small voice, she says, “Please, don’t tell my mother.”

She waits for a loud, mocking, laugh that never comes and, instead, Robin’s voice grows softer, the way it does when he talks to Roland. “Why would I ever do that?”

“Because you know as much as I do the only reason why they let me travel around the kingdom so freely.”

She finally meets his eyes, desperation obvious in hers when his are only kind and soft. So is his smile when he takes her hand between his, drawing circles with his palm. It is effectively soothing, and her heart beats slowly again after a few minutes of silence.

“Now, tell me why it would be so bad for your mother to learn about your dalliance with Sir James.”

She offers Robin a pointed look then – he is a bandit, after all, surely he must know what clouds her mind, surely he must have reached the same conclusions she did. If it is the case, he hides it well, for his face remains impassive and mildly curious as he waits for her answer.

And she’s about to reply when they hear the sound of hooves behind her, and Emma doesn’t have to turn around to know who the newcomer is – the look on Robin’s face is enough of a clue. Still she does, and her heart skips a beat, as it always does, at the sight of her dear pirate in front of her. He grins down at her as he holds a hand out to her.

“Would m’lady enjoy a ride around town?”

She doesn’t think twice before jumping to her feet, glad she changed back into more comfortable clothes after a whole day stuck into a stuffy dress – her breeches will make riding all the easier.

Mulan comes closer almost instantly, yet Emma stops her with a simple shake of the head. “I don’t risk anything here. She won’t come that close to Robin.”

She purposefully ignore the questions in his eyes as she grabs his hand and lets him pull her up until she sits behind him on the horse, tights close against his and arms wrapped around his waist.

Still, she waits until the camp is far behind them to address the chimera in the room. “You know we’re not supposed to be alone without a chaperon, right?”

He only scoffs at first, then looks at her above his shoulder, mirth in his eyes and smirk on his lips. “Oh now you’re going to act like a proper lady?”

He laughs as she slaps him, but stops his teasing here. Emma has to admit he has a point though – she always tends to forget her manners when she is around him, forget she is a princess and has to act like one. It’s so easy to be just Emma, and the way she kissed him – twice! – the previous night in only one more proof. Thankfully her parents are not here, or she would be sent straight back to her castle and corsets and stuffy balls.

She can at least count on Robin to be discrete about the whole affair.

She’s already afraid of what will happen once they’re back at the castle for the King’s tournament, where she’ll have to act like the royal she is, where all eyes will be on her and her parents.

She’d rather enjoy her freedom than think about it now.

“Where are we going anyway?” she asks, tightening her grip around his waist.

“That, indeed, is a really good question.”

It’s her time to chuckle, slightly shaking her hand – of course he’d have no idea where to go, he wouldn’t know the area, only there to steal her away and spend some time with her. She likes it. “Turn after that grove of threes. We’re too close to the village.”

“Now who’s the one willing to be alone?” he teases, even when following her directions. She, after all, knows the surroundings better than he does, and going to the village would not be that good an idea – too many noblemen, too many people who’d likely recognize them – and gods know what they’d do with that piece of information.

The path leads them to a clearing and a small lake – green of the grass against the blue of the water, tiny colourful flowers everywhere, the chirping of bird the only sound to break the peaceful silence of the place. He jumps off the horse and immediately helps her doing the same, hands on her hips as she slides off the saddle. They linger in that position for a few second, close but not close enough, until he snaps out of it and steps back.

“Are we going for a swim?” he asks, eyes strangely sparkling – excitement, anticipation, her minds reads.

“Maybe,” she tease, and her hand brushes against his chest as she walks toward the water. She doesn’t miss his low growl, and bites her lip – she’s playing with fire, she knows, the game too foreign to her. Yet she can’t help it, can’t stop now – it’s too much too soon, maybe, but also exactly what she needs. To play, to feel wanted and loved, to be more than the crown on her head. He’s giving her exactly that.

So Emma sits by the bank, gets rid of her riding boots and puts her feet in the cold water of the lake. Leaning on her elbows, she closes her eyes and tilts her head back, the late afternoon sun warming her skin as a smile curls her lips. He must do the same by her side, because he gasps at how cold the water is and she replies by a small giggle. They remain like that for long minutes, simply enjoying the peaceful moment and the other’s presence, until she hears him moving against, with the sound of rumpled fabric – and then a loud ‘splash’.

Her eyes shoot open as his head comes to the surface, and he shakes the water off his hair with a curse nobody would ever say in front of royalty. “Bloody hell, it’s cold,” he adds with a laugh.

“Are you out of your mind?”

He swims closer to the bank, still laughing. “Come on, princess, join me.”

“No way. You’re _mad_.”

“Come or I’ll pull you in.”

The sparkle in his eyes changes, darken now, from mindless teasing to challenging. He knows her all too well, toying with her stubbornness, her pride. But it won’t work, not this time. The water is too cold, the sun ready to set and, even if Robin doesn’t mind, she’s certain he’ll have something to say about her coming back soaking wet from head to toes. Which is obviously something her pirate doesn’t care about, ignoring her shakes of the head as he grips her tights and yanks.

She falls in the water with a shriek, and no amount of slapping his shoulder stops him from laugh, quite loudly she might add. “I’m sorry, love. I really am.” But his voice is still singing with mischief, even as he comes closer and brushes the wet strands of hair away from her forehead. She wants to be upset, but their proximity and the way he grins sooth her mind – she finds herself smiling too, until his lips are one her.

She’s quite aware of the fabric of her clothes sticking to her like a second skin, aware of his body against her, warm despite the cold water and oh so firm. She uses his shoulders to lean into the kiss and this is wrong wrong _wrong_ but she can’t stop now.

Not when her heart beats so fast against her ribcage.

He keeps playing with her hair even after the kiss, smiling at her like she’s a gift from above and she wonders how it happened, wonders what she did to deserve someone taking such care of her.

(She doesn’t want to think of the way he looks at her and how it reminds her of her parents.)

“So tell me, love. How does someone like you end spending time with bandits?”

Emma isn’t surprised that he doesn’t know – the tales of her mother’s years as an outlaw are famous, but some details remain unknown to the common folks, because Snow likes to keep some aura around her, some unresolved mysteries. It makes Emma laugh, how proud her mother is of her young years.

“He’s a friend of the family,” she says, for it is not her story to tell. “He used to be my archery teacher.”

“The little princess is full of hidden secrets.”

_If only you knew_. She smiles sweetly, the way she was taught when she was younger, the neutral smile. If he notices, he doesn’t react. “Robin taught me how to shoot an arrow and I know my way around a sword thanks to Sir Lancelot. That way, my mother would only focus on the teaching of politics and war strategies.”

He simply nods at first, the name ringing a bell without a doubt, but a small frown appears on his brow then. “What about your father?”

Her father learnt to use a sword only because he was thrown in the middle of a war, and still struggles with external relationships – politics have never been his forte, he lacks Snow’s poise and her way around words, lacks Emma’s memory and the art of false flattery. Still, he taught her so much, she wouldn’t even know where to start.

“He taught me how to love,” are the words tumbling out of her mouth, cheeks turning pink at her confession – they’re too close, it’s too intimate, the last thing she needs is to speak about True Love of all things.

Especially with the way his eyebrows shoot up – obviously not expecting that answer – and his smile softens into something else, something deeper. “Thanks the gods for that,” he all but whispers as his lips find hers again.

It’s almost too easy, too perfect, and she shivers against her will – he thinks it is the cold and offers to bring her back to camp, which she accepts if only to get away from this frightening situation, to put her mind at ease. Still, even after one last kiss and the promise of seeing her the following day, even after he is long gone and she lies in bed, the turmoil of her emotions doesn’t stop.

Emma wonders if that’s what it feels like, falling in love.


	11. chapter 10

Ruby all but forces him to go to the market the following morning, his next match being in the afternoon and leaving him free time, with the excuse of buying fabric for a new tunic – the one Victor will sew to be worn at the opening ceremony of the King’s tournament. (He’s lost as to how someone who calls himself a simple man of science knows anything about sewing, but knows better than to ask.) Killian knows it's more about her wanting to spend time between the stalls than it really is about his clothes, but he humours her anyway.

They quickly agree on three different shades of fabric – light brown for the breech, white for the shirt and a deep red for the waistcoat – before Ruby drags him all around the market place, from one stand to another, marvelling at ripe fruits and colourful scarfs, delicate glass sculptures and wood trinkets. He laughs at her antics and they both do when a merchant tries to talk him into buying a “beautiful dress for his beautiful sister” – it’s all in the fair eyes and dark hair, how they whisper to each other without acting like a couple. Still, Killian only smiles sweetly at the man, and tells him they are not interested, before moving to then next shop.

“Why now, _brother_ , am I not worthy of a new dress?”

His laugh is low and rich as he grabs her arm to pull her further away from the temptation of pretty silky gowns. “You’ll be at the liberty of buying it yourself once the tournament is won.”

If Ruby’s smile falters a bit at that, he barely notices it for a flash of blond eyes catches his eyes – his breath goes raspy and his heart beats faster, his body reacting to her even before he actually recognizes her. His eyes really fall on her then, and so do Ruby’s as she makes a small sound between a sigh and a groan – he can almost feel her rolling her eyes.

“And here goes our quality family time,” she complains, and Killian can only laugh for something tell him she will go along with that siblings business for quite some time. Still, he offers Ruby his most adorable pout, and greets her with a grin when she shoos him away, closer to the princess. “Go, Don Juan. Just go.”

He graces her with an eye roll before he makes his way through the crowd to where Emma is standing with her escorts, as they’re admiring trinkets a jeweller is selling. He arrives with a nod to Mulan for her not to worry, and looks over Emma’s shoulder and she and Aurora are going through several necklaces.

“You should pick the amber one,” he whispers in her ear, effectively startling her.

She turns around quickly, eyes wide and hands tightened into fists, ready to fight back, but immediately softens when her eyes fall on him. She huffs at him, even with a smile creeping on her lips – he grins back.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’m also right, you should buy the amber one.”

Aurora holds the necklace against Emma’s throat, the gem resting between her collarbones – it is only a polished gem on a pendant, but it is breath-taking in its simplicity. And, mostly, it brings out the golden in her hazel eyes, making them sparkle in the soft morning light.

“Oh Emma, it is quite lovely,” Aurora says, and Killian beams with happiness at the little princess’ approval – she seems, after all, like a woman of tastes.

Emma seems to hesitate, her eyes going from Killian to Aurora several times, before she caves in with a sigh she wants exasperated but that doesn’t fool anymore. “All right, all right,” she says as she hands the necklace to the merchant for him to put it in a velvet box. Her eyes scan the stall as she reaches in her purse for the golden crowns – something catches her attention then, and she grabs it quickly. So fast, actually, that Killian doesn’t have time to look at it properly. “That too, please.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

The title seems weird to Killian’s ears, for he is not used to people actually using it – everybody around Emma seems to be calling her by her own name, and he took an habit of using his fair share of pet names too. Still, she remains the princess in the eyes of the common folk, something he tends to forget all too easily. After all, she was _Her Highness_ to him only months ago, and never would he have thought he’d ever talked to her – yet, here he is.

She slips her new jewellery box in the bad Aurora wears at her hip, then turns to him. She takes his hand and unfolds the fingers, pressing something to his open palm. “That’s for you.”

His eyes fall on quite the heavy ring, obviously crafted for a man – silvery, with a big red gem and intricate flower pattern that look a lot like the ones on her family crest. But it is the patterns on the side of the ring that particularly catch his eye, something that looks a lot like a hook, or maybe the head of a swan, within a heart. He smirks – how appropriate.

“Is that a token of affection, m’lady?”

He is certain she will roll her eyes again but instead she looks around her quickly, concern painted on her face. Disappointment feels heavy on his chest when he realises she’s making sure no one heard him, as if afraid someone would find out about the evolution of their relationship.

Right.

He should have seen it coming.

“No, it’s a gift,” she says finally, and she notices the sudden change of mood, brows creasing into a small frown.

Killian only offers her a tight smile and bows slightly. “My thanks. I shall leave you to your shopping then.”

As he makes his way back to Ruby, he distinctly hears Aurora fake-whispering, “It’s embarrassing how bad you are at courting”, but it doesn’t lift his spirits. Still, he slips the ring on, the metal heavy on his finger.

 

.

 

Aurora comes to him before his match, a delicate silky scarf in her hands.

“My lady wants you to have this, as a token of her affections.”

It is not quite a public acknowledgment of whatever is happening between them, but Killian is not a greedy man – he’ll get what he can get.

 

.

 

Nobody is that surprised, two days later, when the final match brings Killian and Robin together – actually, everybody had called it from the very first day of the tournament, and rumours got bigger over the days with the obvious friendship the two men form now. The crowd is hoping for a show, and a show they will get for both of them want to enjoy themselves more than anything. Even minutes before the joust begins, both on top of their horse and on opposite sides of the ground, they decide to have a laugh about the whole thing.

“Ready to lose, old man?” Killian says loud enough, earning some laughs from the audience.

“Skills before good looks, lad!”

“Thankfully I have both.”

It makes quite the show, people laughing and applauding their antics, and they keep going until the joust actually begins. And even then, forcing his horse into a fast gallop, Killian can’t stop grinning because this is _amusing_. Gone is the time when he was only doing this to full their starving bellies, for mere survival – he’s doing it for the sake of it now, for the thrill of the moment and the satisfaction of beating some lord’s ego. Now especially feels like having a good time with a friend more than anything, and it is something he could get used to.

Still all playfulness is lost on them with the strength they put into their lances, their quips not the only way they find to entertain the audience. Wood chips fly around them with each round, bruises already forming behind his armour from each repeated hit to his chest – it leaves him breathless but laughing, each round a tie, none of them managing to score the single point that would make all the difference.

Point that arrives minutes later. Killian isn’t sure if it’s out of luck or out of something else entirely, but Robin’s lance slides against his shoulder, unbroken, while his crashes against his friend’s chest in a loud crack.

The audience remains silent for two long seconds before breaking into cheerful yells and applause – the sound of fists against the wood of the fence echoing his loud heartbeat. His friends, as always, come to him and chant his name, and even Robin claps his shoulder with a grin.

When he turns his head, Killian finds both princesses on their feet, clapping too.

 

.

 

“Sixty-eight, sixty-nine… And seventy. Thank you, gentlemen.”

The golden coins fall, one after the other, into the purse Graham holds. He can’t even wipe the smirk off his face, especially with the grimaces Robin’s Merry Men make as they hand him the money – the purse feels heavy and Graham feels rich, all is well.

“Now if you ever find yourself in a gambling mood again,” Jefferson chimes in above his friend shoulder with his best Cheshire cat’s grin, “we’ll be at the King’s tournament.”

 

.

 

Killian goes back to his tent after barely an hour spent at the banquet – even without Emma, free food is free food and who would he be to give it the cold shoulder – and is not all that surprised not to see his friends. He learnt about the bet from a hysterical Ruby, and apparently celebrating was in order and he wasn’t invited. He wonders if he’ll have to look for them in every tavern in town, and then decides to let them be. It is, after all, their problem if they pass out in a dark alley from too much drinking.

He doesn’t see his friends but a frame he knows well, sitting in silence by the fire. Mulan doesn’t even look up at him as he walks pass her, frowning, and he has a moment of hesitation before entering the tent.

And here she stands, draped in a long white cape that falls to her feet, hair tumbling down her shoulders turned golden by the candlelight. Killian stops in his tracks and stares, barely even blinking as if afraid she’ll disappear in a heartbeat if he takes his eyes away from her. Long seconds pass and she remains, not a fiddle of his imagination after all, so he moves closer until standing only a few feet away from her.

“You’re a liar. A good one, I’ll give you that, but still a liar,” she says out of the blue, her soft voice not matching the harshness of her accusation. And then she adds, for emphasis, “ _Killian_.”

He has the most peculiar reaction then, of his first thought is about how good his name sounds on her lips and how he wants to hear it again. But his brain catches up with the emergency of the situation soon enough, heart beating faster and cheeks growing red with embarrassment and ever-growing panic.

He’s officially a dead man.

“I – I can explain. I swear. I – Emma – Your Highness – I…” He is a rightful mess, not managing to come up with a single coherent sentence, let alone to speak up, only able to think about the pillory waiting for him on the market place, about the axe that will probably take off his head – he’s too young to die.

“You’re a liar,” she says again, stepping closer to him like a cat to a mouse, feral yet beautiful. “You lied about your name and your birth, you forged fake papers and tricked everyone into believing your herald’s beautiful little stories.” Yet another step, so close now. “But, worst of all, you stole from a royal member.”

His eyes widen – this is such nonsense, he never stole, even if one could consider the way he earned money dubious at best. But he never truly stole, let alone stole from the royal family of all people. He knows his place, after all. “What are you talking about?” he manages to ask, voice nothing but a weak, frightened, whisper.

She keeps coming closer until only a few inches are left between them and he has to look down to find her eyes – if his are easily readable as scared, hers are a mystery, dark and clouded. She stares at him, head tilted to the side, for what seems like hours, before speaking again. “My heart. You stole it.”

He didn’t think his heart could beat stronger. How wrong he was, the damn thing hurting against his ribcage with every frantic beat, threatening to burst away, or maybe stop, at any moment now. He doesn’t trust himself to reply to that, to even move a single muscle. So he just stares at her, heart and mind going wild, leaving him painfully dizzy.

“Do you know why my parent allow me to travel across the kingdom with every new tournament?” she goes on, not caring about his lack of reaction. “They’re all about True Love, you know, so they would never force their only daughter into an arranged marriage. But still, I need to be wed. So they let me into those large gatherings of knights and lords, hoping I will finally meet _the one_. I bet they didn’t expect that turn of events.”

And then, almost out of nowhere, a soft delicate smile curls her lips, lightening up her face. Her hands reach for the clasps of the cape, unfastening them.

“You stole my heart, Killian, but I don’t want it back.”

The cape slides down her shoulders in a soft rustle, leaving her naked in front of him.


	12. chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look how the rating of this fic suddenly went up!

“Oh gods.” He averts his eyes immediately, looking up as his tongue flicks against his upper lip. Each of his muscles seem taut as the string of a bow, almost ready to snap, a vein next to his eye pulsing dangerously – Emma can easy see the tension in his, as if he was forcing himself not to move, not to react. She fights against the feeling of rejection when, as she moves closer, he takes a step back. She doesn’t want to think that, maybe, she was wrong, that he doesn’t have feelings for her after all, that she may have read him wrong. But everything about him screams of restraint, of not giving in to his urges, and Emma takes another tentative step closer.

“How did you find out?”

Emma snorts, the sound unladylike. “You weren’t really discreet about it, you. Quite a miracle nobody but Robin, Mulan and I noticed.” Well, she isn’t that certain about Robin, but she knows he would never become fast friends with a lord – it takes an outlaw to recognize an outlaw. Still, Killian keeps avoiding her gaze, a small frown on his brow. “Your diction, first. Also you appearing out of nowhere when I know all the lords in those tournaments. Oh and your squire punching you in the face while not calling you James was a hint too.”

She can’t help the laugh in her voice as she keeps talking, because of the ridicule of the situation. She takes another step forward, raising her hand for her fingers to brush his chest – he jolts at the touch, still refuses to look at her. His stubbornness could almost amuse her, if it wasn’t for the way he whispers, “Don’t toy with me, please.”

If his words aren’t a slap in her face, then his eyes when he finally looks back at her definitely are, for he looks vulnerable, broken. Still she wonders what she might look like to him in this moment – naked, ready to have her way with him, even knowing his true identity. _Toying_. She might look like a child throwing a tantrum, like a princess not used to be refused anything, and it stings a bit – that he would think that after long weeks of understanding her so perfectly.

So she shakes her head, as she comes closer, always closer. He lets her this time, hand against his neck, naked body flushed against his clothed one as she leans in to whisper against his lips. “I’m not. Trust me, Killian, I’m not.”

He startles at the use of his name, and then his eyes search her face. She isn’t sure what he is looking for, but suddenly something seems to snap within him and, as he pulls her into a hungry kiss, she knows he found it.

His lips are hot against hers, tongue flicking and teeth grazing, delightful reminder of their first kiss in the forest. His low groan, added to his hands caressing her sides, up and down, does nothing to the warmth spreading between her legs, and she decides suddenly he’s wearing too many clothes. One of her hands leaves his hair to tug on the bottom of his shirt, and Killian understands the message, breaking the kiss only to get rid of the item, before pulling her back to him. He irradiates warmth, almost burning her when his hand finds her lower back to keep her close.

But it is not enough, never enough, and in a silent agreement they stumble across the tent until falling down in his bed. It is only made of wood and straw, far from the delicate feather mattresses her back is used to but, with his tongue playing with hers and his desire against her tight, she doesn’t find it in herself to care – he could take her on the ground, for all it mattered, and she wouldn’t mind.

Emma realises her fingers are trembling when they find the laces of his breeches but fail to open them, and he notices too for he places a hand above hers, breaking the kiss to look at her. “Emma, are you sure?” His eyes are open and soft, and Emma knows a single word of her would be enough for him to step back. Still, she might be nervous – not that experimented in the art of lovemaking – but not enough to stop now. So she simply nods, with a smile, and is grant a groan of desire as his lips go back to her skin with even more fervour.

A shiver runs down her spine as he kisses her jaw, her neck, tongue teasing her skin as it follows a path down her body. A gasp of surprise escapes her when his lips close around one nipple, head thrown back against the bed and fingers tightening in his hair as his teeth against her sensitive skin makes her moan. He sucks and licks and bites, before gracing the other breast with the same ministrations, and she feels him smirking against her with each noise she makes, the smooth bastard. He lets go of her with a small ‘pop’, grinning like a fool as he kisses her lips again.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers.

“You’re a tease,” she replies.

He laughs softly. “Brace yourself, my love. It is but the beginning.”

She shivers again, in anticipation this time, as he kisses his way down her body, one hand grabbing her hip as the other finds her knee. He pulls her legs apart, and her eyes widen as she watches him settle between them, as he kisses her inner tight. Killian looks up at her then, the blue of his eyes disappearing in pools of black desire but still opened to her, and she reads there the silent question as he waits for her approval, for her consent. She nods and it is enough to have his tongue against her, to have her arch her back in response, a low whimper on her lips when he brushes against the little bundle of nerves here. It is too much and not enough, how his tongue teases her, how he kisses her like we would her mouth, and she finds herself pushing him against her. His chuckle is muffled against her skin at her eagerness, looking up at her through dark lashes, and it is almost enough to have her come undone.

But then he adds a finger, curling inside her and making her squirm, quickly joined by a second one as he holds her against the bed with a hand to her hip, tongue still driving her crazy. She tries to keep it silent, biting on her lip to muffle her sounds – mostly because people could hear them and gods knew what would happen then – but a sharp “fuck!” still escapes her lips as her vision goes white, stars dancing in front of her eyes, body going limp. His lips remain on her as she climaxes, and then he kisses her tight one last time before urging up again.

She tastes herself on him when Killian kisses her, fingers dancing on her belly and lips curling into a smirk against hers.

“Stop being so smug,” she says, but her voice isn’t as harsh as she wants it to be, a content smile curling her mouth.

“ _Never_.”

She watches as he successes where she failed, quickly getting rid of his breeches, and even if she’s still riding her orgasm, her belly twists in anticipation once more. She lowers her hand to grip him, hand going up and down his length once or twice, and Killian gasps at the contact, forehead falling on her shoulder. He gently swats her hand away then, and they share a moan when his hips brush against hers, sensitive skin against sensitive skin. And then Killian’s entering her, inch by inch, Emma gasping loudly as her back arches, and he stops moving altogether, letting her get use to it at her own rhythm. He whispers sweet nothing to her ear, delicately kisses her jaw, the fingers of one hand trailing up and down her side while the other still grabs her hip firmly.

Long seconds pass until, tentatively, Emma shifts her hips up, and both of them groan at the friction it creates, especially with Killian grabbing her leg to wrap it around his waist, allowing him to fill her completely. With an open-mouth kiss, he slips out of her, thrusting back again, settling in a rhythm. Their kiss becomes sloppier, teeth grazing and tongues barely meeting, as breathes turns into pants and low moans, his name a whisper on her lips with each thrust.

Her fingers grasp for the mattress but only find the hard wood of the bed, so she grabs his shoulders instead, nails leaving red marks on his skin. Warmth builds within her once again, their movement erratic, their moans less and less discrete every time.

“Bloody hell, Emma.” His voice is rasp, teeth nibbling the sensitive skin of her neck – it will most likely leave a bruise, but she doesn’t care. Let him mark her, let everybody see she is his as much as he is hers. “Come again, darling. Come for me.”

He purrs to her ear, fingers reaching for her clit once more, and her back arches, hard nipples brushing against his chest – it’s too much, it’s all too much, stars dancing in front of her eyes as she sucks the air in small hollow breathes. Killian keeps whispering to her, keeps thrusting into her like his life depends of it, as she comes with his name gasped on her lips. His hips slam against hers a few more times before he follows her into oblivion with a groan, trying as best as he can not to fall on top of her.

Instead, Killian manages to roll them over, and she curls up against him, ear against his chest to listen to his heartbeat – still fast and heavy with each breath he takes. “So, what was it again?” he asks finally, after long minutes of silence. “I lied, forces fake papers, tricked everyone into believing me, and stole the princess’s heart only to have amazing sex with her.” She not so delicately punches his chest, only earning a chuckle and a kiss on the top of her head. “That was a very dramatic entrance, by the way.”

Emma finally giggles and turns around to fold her arms on his chest and look up at him. His eyelids are heavy and his smile content, fingers lazily drawing patterns on her shoulder – he looks the exact same way she feels, happy, loved. “Is really was, wasn’t it?” she asks with little face, to which he only impishly shrugs in reply.

A comfortable silence settles between them, Killian’s fingers still drawing on her shoulders as he closes his eyes and relaxes. Chin on her folded arms, she keeps staring at him, trying to memorise each detail of his face, as if afraid they will never be that close again. He might nothing, for he opens one eye, eyebrow rising and smirk forming on his lips. She pouts and it makes him laugh, before he closes his eyes again. “Poor Mulan,” he finally says, and it takes Emma a few seconds to understand his words. She has a small giggle.

“I asked her to leave when you arrived. I am not that mean.”

“Will she…? Do you trust her?”

She only nods at first, until she remembers he’s not actually looking at her. “She doesn’t answer to my family, she works for me. And she’s one of my closest friends, you needn’t worry.” He opens his mouth just then, but she doesn’t need the words to know what he is about to say, to ask. Her answer tumbles out of her mouth before she can stop it – or herself. “She protects me from the Evil Queen.”

Killian remains silent for a while, and then, “It is true what they say.”

She only nods in reply, unwilling to dwell on the thoughts for too long – how the Evil Queen, after one failed curse when Emma wasn’t born yet, keeps plotting against the crown and planning the princess’ demise. How Emma has been followed by guards all her life, in the name of ‘just in case’, and had fought tooth and nail until she was allowed to choose her own bodyguard. Mulan it had been then, and never has she felt safer than with the woman warrior by her side. It is true what they say, that one day another curse will probably come to take Princess Emma. She knows them all too well, the whispers and gossips.

“Scared yet?”

“I’ve been scared from the moment I learnt who you were, love.”

Emma chuckles softly as she snuggles against his side, using his chest as a pillow. His heart beats steadily, lips brushing against her forehead, and the comfort of his arms makes up for the hardness of his bed – she wouldn’t trade it for any other place in the realm.

“What is going to happen?” he asks in a whisper, as if afraid saying the words out loud would make them more dangerous. “To us?”

She feels giddy like a young girl at her first ball at the simple mention of an ‘us’, even if it calls for serious measures. So she sighs, long and loud, as her mind races to find the perfect solution she knows doesn’t exist. She has put herself up against the wall quite nicely this time, with no idea how to put things right.

“I’ll need to talk to my parents first, try not to create a scandal…” He scoffs, hot breaths tickling her hairline, and she punches his shoulder to have him stop. “I’m serious! We’ll have to be careful at the tournament since you’re not officially courting me.”

“Would you like that, love? Being courted by a stable boy?”

She raises her head, playful smile curling her lips. “Being courted by a pirate.”

He catches her lips with a chuckle, nibbles lightly on her bottom lip as she tries not to overthink this – what this courting would really mean, what it would ultimately lead to. She had done a good job at avoiding the inevitable so far, and Killian didn’t seem to realise the importance of the situation, far from a simple dalliance.

Still, and maybe it is the scariest part of all, Emma thinks it wouldn’t be that bad – being wed to him. And with that idea slowly but surely sowing its seeds in her mind, Emma pulls the blanket above them and closes her eyes. Tomorrow, she’ll think about it tomorrow. For now, she only wants to enjoy Killian’s body against her, and his warmth, and his voice as he softly lulls her to sleep – the same song that was on his lips the day they met.


	13. chapter 12

She wakes up at the crack of dawn with his arm around her waist and his breath in her hair. Her muscles are sore, from their previous activities or the uncomfortable bed she doesn’t know, and a shiver runs down her spine at how cold it is – his tent barely protecting them from the morning dew. The bleak grey light casts strange shadows as she stands up, careful not to wake Killian up, and slips on the dress she had folded on the chest in a corner of the tent. Her cape soon follows, raising her shoulders for the fur collar to warm her cheeks, hands deep in the pockets.

She looks around her then, eyes falling on the little table there – ink, quill and old paper all she needs. The message is scribbled quickly (a goodbye of some sort, the promise of seeing him again at her father’s tournament), the piece of paper rolled up, before she takes a ring out of her pocket. She slips the message through it as she goes back to the bed and puts it on the mattress next to Killian. He doesn’t budge in his sleep, not even when she kisses him one last time before slipping out of the tent.

She pulls the hood of her cape over her head not to be recognized, hides in the shadows until she’s back to Robin’s camp and into her own bed. Aurora is still deep in sleep, and so is the rest of the camp. Nobody but Mulan would ever know Emma didn’t spend the night here.

 

…

 

The three women leave in the early hours of the morning, with a last greeting for Robin and the Merry Men (“Mulan, if you ever feel tired of the brat, we’d be happy to welcome the first Merry Women among us”, which earns him a playful punch in the shoulder from Emma), and they follow the King’s Road. It is the quickest and safest road back to the castle, and they will arrive there way before all the knights and lords, something Emma is grateful for as she wants to spend some time with her parents before Killian arrives in town. She dreads that royal discussion already.

They still have to stop twice, the inns offering their largest rooms and finest meals, and the travel would be boring at best if it wasn’t for her troubled thoughts. If Aurora notices, she doesn’t tell, but Emma sees concern on Mulan’s face every time their eyes meet – no doubt the warrior understands her more than Emma is comfortable with.

The castle finally appearing in the distance is both a relief and a new source of anxiety for the princess but, after two more hours of riding, crossing the large gates makes her sigh with a grin on her lips – it is always so good to be home, after all. So she gives her horse to a squire, waves to Aurora and Mulan, and almost runs to the council room where she is the most likely to find her parents.

Indeed they are here, a grin curving her father’s lips as her mother wraps her into a tight hug, and her heart flutters – excitement taking over apprehension by now. Snow’s hands come to cup her face, both women smiling at each other for a second or two before Charming comes and greets her with a hug too.

“Robin sends his regards and says he cannot wait to see you again next week,” Emma says first with a polite nod to her mother. But her princess demeanour breaks into an almost manic grin as she adds, “And I need to tell you something.”

Snow claps her hands, her smile matching her daughter’s. “Oh darling, we know. It is the most exquisite news!”

Emma’s smile soon falters.

 

…

 

The forest ends at the top of a hill, landscape going on and on from there until it loses itself in the horizon. The castle shines in the morning light, miles away from them, carefully placed by the lake. Even from there, Killian can see the small boats on the water, the peasants working in the fields, the white smokes coming from the chimneys. He sighs, deep and loud, followed by Ruby to his side, then Graham, Jefferson. Victor glance at them all, careful, before he asks, “How long have you be away?”

“Not counting brief visits?” Jefferson replies. “Two years.”

“Since my Peter’s death. So five,” Ruby adds.

“Ten.”

Killian can feel all eyes on him by now, waiting for his reply.

But all he can think about it his father’s face on posters all around town, along with a “Wanted” and a reward even his child’s mind knew was huge. His father, selling him to the first lord in need of a servant, not caring about Killian’s wellbeing, not caring about the lord’s reputation. Simply the money, golden coins jingling in a leather purse as the man disappeared in the shadows, leaving him with Sir Maurice. Killian still remembers the tears in his eyes, the weak “Papa?” on his tongue as, slowly but surely, he realised his father wasn’t coming back – would never come back.

Ruby elbows him, and he has to shake his head to come back to the present. “Seventeen. Seventeen years.”

_It’s good to be home_ , he muses, but his eyes don’t fall on the village at that thought. Instead, he watches the castle’s many towers, wonders which one belongs to a certain princess. Ruby has to elbow him once again for him to realise they are making they remained walking to the castle.

Victor has to use all the charm and lies he can muster for the men in charge of the tournament not to look too careful at the fake letters of nobility – they never had any problem until this day, but they also never enrolled in the most prestigious, well-guarded, tournament of all until this day – and Killian sighs in relief when they ask the blond man which categories his lord will be part of. Joust it is, nothing else, and Victor gives them five golden crowns to be assigned a place to pitch their tent. His grin is contagious as he turns to his friends with a thumb up.

They settle in an empty field, a few other knights already there too – it is noon and the opening ceremony will take place the following afternoon, there is still time for everyone to arrive. Still, it is the queerer thing for Killian to see most of them waving at him like friends for, even if their faces are familiar, he never really spoke to them before. Spending the last few months camping next to them and winning more often than not made him popular, in some ways, and Killian isn’t sure how to respond to the unwanted attention. So he simply waves back, sometimes with a word or two, but never more than that.

Ruby checks the horses’ shoes while Victor finishes sewing Killian’s tunic for the opening ceremony, leaving the last three men to take care of the tent. The sun is already setting by the time they’re done and, after a light meal, they decide going to bed early might be a wise decision with the busy days to come.

 

…

 

To say the opening ceremony is the craziest thing Killian ever took part of in his short life maybe be the understatement of the century. His tunic, red with black lining and a black swan on his chest, courtesy of Victor, suits him perfectly and matches the banner Graham holds in front of his horse as they make their way through the streets to the tournament grounds. Killian doesn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t that dense a crowd, loudly cheering and chanting champions’ names – he hears his among others, like he is some celebrity even if those people never actually saw him before today, maiden smiling from the windows and children waving, and it baffles him more than he lets it show.

His heart drums in his chest, almost painful, and he remembers to breathe once in a while. And of course, standing in line with the other lords doesn’t help at all, because it means standing in front of the king and queen, and there is so much Killian can take at once. (Did she talk to them yet? Do they know? Will they recognize him? Send him to the dungeons?) Especially since she sits at her father’s right, more beautiful than ever in that blue gown, a delicate golden circlet across her forehead.

Of course their eyes meet, and Killian can’t help but scratching his cheek then, if only to show off the two rings on his fingers, of her to see he wears both her gifts to him. Emma forces herself to keep her serious composure even if her eyes sparkle with amusement, and Killian is bold enough to wink at her, proud when her lips twitch into the smile she doesn’t want to show. Their little moment lasts only seconds, but it is enough for him not to notice the lord appearing to his left. That is, until he speaks.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?”

Killian’s eye land on the newcomer, and it takes him a few seconds to understand why the other man looks somewhat familiar. He remembers, months ago, the man standing next to Emma, too close to his liking. A suitor of some sort, he had thought at first, but the man had never showed up again, vanishing from Killian’s mind to give way to more important matters.

Until now.

He doesn’t even know the man’s name, but something seems off about him, something Killian cannot put a finger on.

“Aye, that she is,” he replies, voice careful as he looks back to Emma.

“And soon she will be mine.”

Killian’s head jerks back to the man in surprise, as he forgets to hide his emotions for only a second – but it is a second too much, for the other man sneers at him, clearly privy of something Killian doesn’t. But he is obviously the kind of man to brag, so it doesn’t take him long to spit the beans.

“I ask her father for her hand. He agreed to the only condition that she would have the last word on the subject. I have been wooing her since we were teenagers, her answer can only be positive.”

Killian nearly snorts then. _Good luck with that, mate_ , he wants to say, for this idiot obvious has no idea what he is up against. As if his Emma would accept to marry such a pompous prick.

(He scolds himself for calling her _his_ , because Emma doesn’t belong to anyone, least of all that knight who doesn’t know any better.)

“She is a wild thing, but even the wolves can be tamed.”

Killian’s fingers tighten around the reins, knuckles whitening around the reins of his horse – the need to punch the other man stronger than ever. “Is it all she is to you?” he asks, voice harsh with a careful threat. “An animal for you to toy with?”

“What else would she be?”

“The sea.” He doesn’t even have to think twice about it. “To be dealt with carefully for you’ll never know if she’ll drown you or not, relentless in her danger. Worthy of a captain’s awe and reverence, for she could be his demise as much as his safe haven.” Killian smiles tightly as the man, who looks back at him, puzzled. Sarcasm drips from his voice as he speaks next. “But what do I know? I’m certain she’ll be happy to marry someone comparing her to a beast. Perhaps you’ll even teach her some tricks.”

When he looks back at her, her eyebrow rises even so slightly in a silent question – he has no doubt his fury must be written all over his face. He replies by a discreet shake of the head, hoping his eyes convey the _we’ll talk later_ he wants her to read there.

Not once does he think she could actually agree to marry that man.

 

…

 

“Look who’s here!” Jefferson singsongs as he enters the tent. It is followed by a high-pitched sound, halfway between a laugh and a yell, belonging to the little blonde tornado that appears from behind her father’s breeches.

“Uncle Gra’m! Uncle K’lian!”

Graham answers by a laugh of his own as he kneels down, arms opened wide for Grace to throws herself at him. Killian wonders how she still remembers them, for she was three the last time she saw them, and he marvels at how tall she is now – are children even supposed to grow that fast? Isn’t it against the laws?

There is a commotion then, as they introduce the girl to their two new friends and tell her of their most recent adventures – _Uncle K’lian_ ’s ascension to the status of victorious knight soon becoming a favourite of hers. Not to mention how Grace takes an immediate liking to Ruby, asking almost shyly that the woman brushes her hair.

Killian scoots closer to Jefferson, arms folded as he leans against the tent’s pole. “She looks good.”

Jefferson’s smile flatters slightly. “No thanks to me.”

Killian guiltily remembers his harsh words, only a couple of weeks ago. It was nobody’s fault that Lady Belle’s chambermaid was with child so early in her dalliance with Jefferson, nor was it that she died giving birth to Grace. Jefferson had taken care of the child by himself for a few years before finding a home for her, swearing he would come back once he had enough money for them not to rely on one lord or another.

“How much more do you need?”

“Truthfully? If you win this one, we’ll be good.”

Killian smiles at his friend with a clap on the shoulder in a silent promise, when he notices someone by the other side of the tent’s entrance – his heart drops in his chest as thoughts of a blonde beauty cross his mind, uselessly because the frame is tall and broad, obviously masculine.

It doesn’t stop his heart for doing some flip in his chest when he opens the tent’s on the newcomer – both their eyes widen as they fall on the other, sky blue meeting stormy grey. All thoughts of his friends, of Grace, the tournament or even _Emma_ are forgotten in the blink of an eye.

“I knew it was you,” the man says, very matter-of-factly.

Killian can only breathe a single word in reply.

“ _Liam_.”


	14. chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of your reactions to Neal were so priceless they had me laughing out loud. I really didn't expect it but thank you so much!

Killian barely has memories from his life before working for Sir Maurice, too young then to truly remember, the images fuzzy, bouncing off each other in flashes of colourful lights and sounds. Still, there is no doubt about the man’s identity, even if they haven’t seen each other in almost two decades, if only because he looks so much like _her_ – round face and soft curls where Killian has his father’s angular jaw and dark hair. Killian has even less memories of his mother, if only because he was so young when she passed away, but he could never forget her kind eyes, her gentle smile – both features he finds on Liam’s face, and his breath catches in his throat if only for a second at how much he looks like her. Lucky bastard.

Seconds tick by as the two brothers stare at each other in a perfect silence, barely even aware of Ruby, always one to know how to react in such instances, shooing the others outside to give the brothers some kind of privacy. Only then does Killian notice the Navy jacket, the golden epaulettes, and he wants to snort, or perhaps drink himself to oblivion, because _of course_ Liam would be the kind to climb the ladder while his brother struggles to stay alive as a mere stable boy.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Liam asks sharply, startling Killian out of his thoughts.

For a second there, he can only stare at his older brother, mouth slightly agape. As far as he can remember, Liam was always the quiet, composed one while Killian was the one with a temper, so the reversal of the situation leaves him surprised and confused. “Pardon me?”

“Do you have any idea how long it took me to clear our name? How many years to become _someone_?” Killian flinches at the words, know the worse is yet to come. “I won’t have you throw that all away because you fancy yourself a knight.”

“Is that what you think it is? Me having fun?”

“What else could this be?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Only then does he realise they’ve both raised their voices, and he has to remind himself to be careful, not to be heard by someone walking by the tent at that moment. “Maybe it’s about making sure five people, including a five year-old lass, are fed and clothed with a roof on their head. Isn’t it what you’re doing too? Taking care of your crew?”

“What I do is legal!”

“What I do is _survival_!”

The way Liam looks at him then, big blue eyes full of concern and sadness, has Killian almost snapping at him, the screamed ‘stop acting like mama’ on the tip of his tongue. Mostly, he is angry, because _how dares he_ – how dares Liam swagger around like he owns the damn place, like he somewhat knows better with his nice boat and his nice uniform. For a seconds or two there, Killian only wants to scream, about having no other choice, about being abandoned and alone – but he knows this isn’t fair, knows Liam was already in the Navy by the time they became orphans. There was not much to be done then but to accept their (somewhat very different) fates.

“I don’t want you to follow _his_ path, is all,” Liam says finally, the concern in his voice matching his eyes.

“Not a chance.” Killian shakes his head, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them. “She wouldn’t let anything happen to me.”

“ _She_?” Concern turns into disbelief as Liam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Who is _she_?”

As if on cue, the tent opens on Emma and words die on Killian’s tongue.

 “Hey,” she whispers to him, but her smile falters when she notices the other man, surprise twisting her features. “Captain Jones?”

“Your Highness?”

Liam looks between his younger brother and the princess several times, as if trying (and failing) to connect the dots. For a moment there, Killian hopes against hope that he will not make the connection, will not understand what is going on there. The princess personally giving words of encouragement to the knights, it must happen all the time, right?

Still, he can pinpoint the exact moment Liam has the epiphany, and he groans internally when his brother turns to him, hands on his hips. “You shouldn’t be allowed outside.”

Killian decides fate has an odd sense of humour.

 

…

 

Her fingers are feather-like on his skin, drawing circle against the palms of his hands in what he supposes to be soothing motions. But his eyes keep averting to the left, to the frame of his brother by the other side of the tent, and his mere presence doesn’t allow Killian to enjoy this moment alone with Emma as much as he’d like. He knows they only have minutes, but his mind keeps wandering elsewhere, and it annoys him at best.

“Killian?” Her voice snaps him back to reality with a startle. “Are you all right?”

“Aye. Don’t worry.”

But he can see in her eyes that she already does, concern clouding her green eyes. She tilts her head to the side, as if it could help her read his mind – he’s always been an open book to her, but it’s like this page is written in a language she doesn’t know, and it may annoy her as much as it concerns her. And Killian knows it isn’t right, knows it isn’t how things should be. She is supposed to have an easy, pleasant life, with a lord who worships the ground beneath her feet, not with a lowborn squire with dangers hidden around every corner. It is wrong.

Maybe it is a sign, maybe he should stop the masquerade here and let her go on with her royal life.

(He really doesn’t want to.)

Still, the thought brings another one to his mind that almost startles him again. “The lord. He’s asked for your hand.”

“Lord Baelfire?” She snorts the name like it’s a joke, and Killian doesn’t know if he should be relieved or not. Perhaps it would be easier, to have her pining on another man. More painful, yet easier. “ _Gods_ no. My mother thinks it would be a good match, but the man bores me to death.”

She takes a step closer to him, her hands still in his, with that look in her eyes once again, the one that see right through him and all of his secrets. He wants to look away, if only because Liam could decide to come back inside and put a stop to their little moment, but he knows it to only be an excuse – he simply doesn’t want her to see his doubts, his concerns.

“I will talk to them. Before the end of the tournament, I will. I swear.”

There is so much determination, in her voice and on her face, that Killian’s heart stops beating for a second there, before drumming faster. Emma is so sincere in her affections for him that he doesn’t know how to react, doesn’t remember right from wrong. Perhaps he just needs to fully trust her – if she says things will be all right, if she truly believes it, then who is he to doubt her? So he simply raises his hand to pull a golden lock behind her ear, with a stiff nod and a smile.

“Before the end of the tournament,” he repeats, more as a reassurance than anything.

He doesn’t want to think about after that, not now that already so many things are on his mind. So he just steals her a kiss, and she grins back at him as she bites her bottom lip. But Liam comes back inside the tent then, preventing Killian from thinking about another moment with Emma’s lip caught between her teeth, wriggling beside him with taunting little moans – no, it is neither the time nor place.

“Shall I escort you back to the castle, Your Highness?” Liam asks with a bow and – oh, _that_ is how one is supposed to act around nobility and royalty. Good to know.

Emma’s hand slip from his as she nods back, leaving his fingers cold, his heart empty. Something shifts in her face, something he can’t quite point out, but it is enough for her whole demeanour to change as she lifts her chin higher. He watches as Emma disappears and the princess takes her place, bowing goodbye to him.

“I will see you at your first joust, my lord.”

“I’ll be the one on the horse, m’lady”, he replies with a hesitant bow of his own. Her eyes sparkle with the memories the sentence brings, kisses with the trees as only witnesses, even with her face keeping a mask of impassivity. Liam offers an arm to Emma and a mouthed ‘we’re not done yet’ to Killian before they make their way outside.

He lets himself fall on the bed, rubbing his eyes and massaging his temples. Life as a squire was so simple, why did he decide complicating it would be a good idea?

 

…

 

“You have a ship that can fly.” Even the awe in Killian’s voice can’t hide how unconvinced he sounds, and Liam’s laughs, lough and cheerful, are the only reply he is given at first. His brother is messing with him, there is no other way. Such a thing, a magic sail made from a flying horse, is only something out of legends, nothing more than a myth.

“Of course, I do.” Liam points his fork at him, amused. “She’s a thing of beauty, fastest ship in all the realms. You’d love her.”

Killian has never be drawn by the sea, even if their family used to live by the coast – then again, he’s lived inland for too many years to actually feel like belonging at sea. But Liam’s words and the passion in his voice, as they are sharing a meal in a tavern by the docks, everything smelling of fish and sea salt… Killian has to admit it is tempting, in ways he had never considered before.

“You could enrol in the navy”, Liam goes on, as if privy of his brother’s thoughts. “You became a knight in a couple of weeks, surely being a sailor wouldn’t be that hard.”

Killian only raises an eyebrow at that, hiding his emotions with a mouthful of stew. Surely his life lately has been too busy for him to think past the King’s tournament, but a new career? Which would have him leave his friends behind, not to mention her… He isn’t sure he can do such a thing.

“I am certain they would appreciate their daughter’s suitor to be a captain of the navy.”

Killian snorts in his mug of beer, foam flying to his nose as he coughs for some air – all under the laughing eyes of his brother – and it takes him long seconds before he can pull himself together once again. He quickly looks around him, as if afraid someone might be eavesdropping, but nobody seems to care, especially since Liam didn’t use any name. Good. Let’s keep it that way. “I thought you didn’t approve,” is the first thing that comes to his mind.

“She didn’t stop rambling about you all the way back to the castle. Kept asking me questions. I’ve never seen her like that before and… Oh, don’t be so smug!”

Killian tries – and fails – to hide his grin behind his beer, but a happy chuckle still escape his lips and he feels like a young maiden with her first lover – giddy and light in the head, like the whole world opens itself to him. Emma, proud stubborn beautiful Princess Emma, asking his brother questions about him, wanting to know more about him – how could he _not_ be smug? He feels his heart beat faster, his smile grow bigger, and laughs at Liam’s exasperate eye roll.

A few seconds pass before Killian asks, “This ship of yours… How _fast_ is fast?”

It is enough for them to fall in a conversation about ships and adventures, Liam narrating his exploits and Killian equalling him with stories of his time as a knight. They laugh more often than not and drink too much ale, head dizzy with alcohol and tongues loosening with more stories, more jokes. He’s missed that, having a brother, someone to share everything with – Graham may be his best mate, yes, but it is different, it lacks the deep relationship only siblings have. Killian knows tomorrow will be harsh on him, his first joust in the morning, but he doesn’t care about that right now – not after almost two decades away from his brother.

They only leave when the waitress refuses to pour them another drink, leaving her a more than generous tip. None of them notice the hooded figure sitting in a corner of the room, nor the way they’ve been stared at all evening.


	15. chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode is slightly shorter than usual (sorry!) but it sets the mood for the rest of the fic so... enjoy?

The tent is oddly silence as they are getting ready, the cheering of the crowd nearby only a buzzing sound to Killian’s ears. Graham is saddling the horse a few feet away while Ruby helps him putting on his armour, the silence between them not helping in the slightest as thoughts keep creeping into his mind. The nervousness feels heavy on his chest, his breathing difficult, his mind numbed by all the responsibilities on his shoulders – his friends, his brother, Emma, how much winning this joust, winning the whole tournament, means to them, all of them. No pressure whatsoever.

“You’ll be fine,” Ruby whispers, as if reading his mind, while she helps him in his undershirt – something she’s never done before, her smothering him a lot today the only proof that she feels as nervous as he is.

Something is wrong, something is definitely wrong, Killian can feel it in his bones, at the tip of his tongue. The buzzing in his ears doesn’t help either, and Graham shoots him a sympathetic look with a tight smile in what is supposed to be a reassuring manner, but it only make Killian even more nervous than he already was. It doesn’t help that Victor isn’t back from talking with the organisers yet – it’s never taken him so long before.

“Killian!”

A whole different blonde bursts inside the tent, her eyes frenetically scanning her surroundings before they land on him with a sigh of relief. He doesn’t have time to open his mouth, doesn’t even have time to think Emma here might be wrong on many levels, because she jumps in his arms in an instant, holding him like she has no intention of every letting go, lips crashing against his in desperation, fingers tugging his hair almost painfully.

Something is definitely wrong.

“Emma, love…”

But she cuts him off with yet another kiss before cupping his face in her hands, eyes scanning him like she is trying to memorise every detail of him. “You need to go. Now. You need to run as far as possible.”

He barely even registers her words at first, because he’s never seen her losing control in as many months as he’s known her, and the misery in her eyes is more than enough for him to forget about anything else. But his brain catches up soon enough and he wants to laugh, the uneasiness creeping in his bones so the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a breathless broken whine.

Before he can say anything, Victor enters the tent, Liam following in his wake, the expression on their faces not unlike Emma’s – Jefferson with Grace in his arms soon after, her face painted red and black like their coat of arms. None of them question his arms around the princess’s waist, and that’s the final straw convincing Killian something is indeed _really wrong_.

“They know. They asked to see your patents of nobility again. If I don’t provide them, they will arrest you.” Now that he’s started, Victor seems to be unable to stop talking, the words fumbling out of his mouth in an almost nonsensical manner. “Someone must have recognized you and tipped them off, I don’t know. It’s over, Killian. They’re going to arrest you for identity fraud and gods know what other accusations. A dozen of her father’s soldiers are waiting for you in the list. You’ll be thrown in jail – sentenced to death even, with all the money we took.”

“You need to go,” Emma adds once again, hand pushing his chest, as if that simple gesture could convince him to flee.

But his head is heavy and his ears buzzing as his eyes jump to each of their worried faces, far too serious to his liking. His fingers tighten on Emma’s hip, refusing to let go, refusing to agree – he can’t run. _Won’t_ run. It’s in his blood but he will fight the urge with his dying breath if he needs to, because Killian Jones is a lot of things but a coward he is not.

“Killian…” Her voice is soft now, nothing but a broken whisper, and he looks down at her again – searching her face, her eyes, for answers she doesn’t give. “You have to run. Run, and I will run with you.”

The laugh is bitter in his mouth, even as he cuts her face. “Love, you have no idea what you’re talking about.” He doesn’t wait for an answer, eyes travelling to each of his friends, pleading, before settling on Jefferson. “You and Grace need the money, we can’t stop now.”

But even Jefferson, impulsive hot-blooded Jefferson, shakes his head. “We need you _alive_ more than anything.”

A whine escapes Killian’s mouth once more, holding Emma close to his chest like an anchor, as he finally stares at his brother. The accusation Liam thrown at him only a day before still ring clearly in his mind – this is, more than anything, more even than his stubbornness or his love for Emma, the reason why he hasn’t ran for his life yet. “I can’t, Liam. I _can’t_.”

“You can and you will, brother.”

“ _NO!_ ” The yell startles them all, especially Emma in his arm. He lets go of her, reluctantly. “I won’t run the way _he_ did.”

Liam doesn’t miss a beat, the both of them ignoring the incomprehension on everybody else’s faces. His voice rings as loudly as Killian’s. “And I won’t have you _die_ the way he did either!”

“ _A man unwilling to fight for what he wants…_ ” Killian begins, voice dropping to a low and feral whisper. “I’m a knight! I’m a knight and they won’t take that away from me.”

Liam, or perhaps Emma, is about to reply something, when a metallic sound startles them all and they turn their head to find Ruby, arms wrap around the armour. She comes next to Killian, commanding him to raise his arms with a simple nod – he obeys, oddly silent in his surprise, and she puts the armour on his back without a word.

“Ruby… What are you doing?” Graham asks finally, once she’s strapping the pauldrons on his shoulders.

“If this moron wants to get arrested, let him. But I’ll make sure he looks good doing so.”

 

…

 

Unsurprisingly, the soldiers are indeed waiting for Killian in front of the site, hand on the pommel of their sword. Two of them lean their lances across the entrance to block him if he ever fancies braving their authority and walking pass them. He watches each and every one of them, their furrowed brows, the scolding line of their lips, and only then does it registers that maybe he’s doomed. But running away right now would be cowardly, not to mention pointless – he would get caught in an instant anyway. So he just stands there, staring back at them.

“Is it the man, my lady?” A man asks to his left.

When Killian turns to the sound, his heart drops in his chest at the woman standing there. He hasn’t seen her in years, thought he would never see her again once the Dark One had taken her, and yet here she is – proud and beautiful as he remembers, brown curls falling on her shoulders, bodice hugging her waist. But gone are her soft eyes, her gentle smile, as she glares at him as if she hopes it would kill him on the spot.

“Lady Belle?”

“Yes, it is him,” she answers, going out of her way to ignore Killian as she does so.

He wants to curse, wants to bang his head against the nearby wall, wants to scream. But mostly he wants to grab her by the shoulders and shake, to ask what she is doing, which game she is playing. He taught her horse-riding in the courtyard of her father’s castle, went on long rides with her when she was feeling down and kept her company in the library during rainy days. _Hell_ , he even helped her sneaking out of the castle’s walls more than once to see her beloved Gaston before their betrothal was made official. As far as he can remember, he’s always been kind to her and she to him, developing some kind of bond through the years.

_What is she doing?_

“His name is Killian Jones. He let my father die and stole his horse. He lied about his name and rank.”

Killian’s eyes widen a bit more with each word and he doesn’t blame Graham for taking a feet steps back, hiding his face from her – only one of them will be arrested today, especially if murder is on the list of accusations like her tone implies. Her words are all the soldiers need to seize him, their hold tight on his arms as if expecting him to fight back. But he can only stare at her, beautiful clever Belle, and wonders what happened for her to turn cold and cruel to him.

“Belle… Belle, what are you doing? You know me, you know I’d never do anything to your father. Belle, _please_.”

He sees it, the flash of hurt and guilt in her eyes, the apology that threatens to break her lips at any moment. But it is too late already. Something is wrong, something even she cannot control – he’s suddenly scared, a shiver running down his spine at the ever-present menace above his head. It won’t end with him in jail, he know it already.

 

…

 

The walk to the castle is a long and painful one. People stop talking when they see him, the whispers following him still – they recognize him, that James everybody already thought was going to win the tournament. They recognize him, but the rumour is faster and, by the time he makes it to the castle, they already know. _Liar_ , they whisper, _imposter_. He hears their curses and feels their glares, and it is more painful than he will ever admit – crashing down, after so many weeks among the stars.

And then silence, the castle’s door closing behind him, their footsteps the only sounds as the soldiers drag him down down _down_ to the dungeons, to the cells. They open one at the far end of the tunnel and, after stripping him off his armour, throw him inside slam the door behind him, gone in a matter of minutes – Killian alone at last.

The cell is dark and damp, water dropping from the ceiling and running down the walls. Everything smells of urine and sweat, having him gag with each breath he takes. But, soon, something else crawls under his skin, and he turns on his heels several times only to meet darkness.

Until, finally, an eerie laugh startles him and gives him goose bumps, yellow feral eyes sparkling in the darkness. “Well, well, well, dearie…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews? :D


	16. chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay but life has been crazy at the university. I still have to go through a few more weeks of madness before the ear is over, so I apologize in advance as I know the next chapter will take a bit of time to come too.

“With all due respect, Your Highness, may I speak my mind?”

Her mind is still numb from seeing the soldiers taking Killian away, powerless in her status as a princess – they may be her father’s men, but they don’t answer to her, not yet – so Captain Jones’ words startle her out of her thoughts and she turns to him, eyes wide and surprise still on her face. She had not given much thought about Killian and the Captain being brothers so far, but she can only stare at his face now, taking in the familiar eyes and soft features. It makes her heart ache, how similar yet different they are.

“No, you may not,” she replies with her royal voice, distant and almost arrogant. “What you may do is escort me back to the castle. I need to speak with my father.”

Surprise paints the Captain’s face for a few seconds – whether because of her words or her voice, Emma isn’t sure – before he simply nods and offers her his arm. She knows a walk back to the castle wouldn’t be that dangerous, not with the town full of her father’s knights and lords, and that she wants the Captain by her side only because she cannot have Killian now, taking moral support where she finds it. So she tightens her hold on his arm, almost pulling him all the way to the castle, then in the maze of dark silent hallways. He doesn’t complain once, simply following her with long hasty strides, like he cannot wait to put an end to that issue either – _good_ , she thinks, _let him be loyal to his brother_.

Her hells resonate in the silence of the castle, echoing the loud beat of her heart with each step she takes. Emma doesn’t realise how terrified she is until she almost loses her way to the council chamber, and forces herself to breathe deeply yet calmly, not wanting for the Captain to hear how erratic her breathing is. She cannot give in to panic, not now, not when Killian needs her.

She finally stops in front of wooden doors, glancing quickly at Captain Jones – his cheeks a light red from walking so much so fast, eyes wide with worry, not fear. “Stay here,” she tells him, and he only nods, once, in obedience.

The doors are heavy and loud as they scrape against the floor when she pushes them, a dozen lords turning their head to her in a single movement. But she does not care about them and their curious looks, only stares at her father as he sits at the council table, all leather and red velvet, fur cloak carelessly resting on the back of his chair.

He looks as royal as one can get, which is good – she needs to talk to the king, not the father.

“Emma –”

“What have you done?”

He does not even try to look surprised, which would have unsettled her had the situation been different, but she is too upset and scared and overall angry to care about his lack of reaction. Instead, she takes a few step forwards until only the table remains between them, his lords carefully stepping aside – they know of the wrath she inherited from Snow White. Good, let them be wary of her.

“Emma, he is a criminal”, David says slowly, as if explaining some complex idea to a child. “And criminals are sent to prison when caught.”

“You don’t know him. He’s a good man!”

“I don’t need to _know_ him, Emma. He’s a liar and a fraud!”

She can’t help it – she snickers, the sound loud and sarcastic as she folds her arms on her chest and stands her ground. “That’s rich coming from you, _David the shepherd_.”

She regrets the words the moment they leave her mouth, for her father’s face turns white in an instant, lips set in a tight line and vein pulsing dangerously at his neck. People have always teased her about being _papa’s little girl_ – her relationship with him far better than the one with her mother – but even if he has always been kind and patient to her, Emma knows she stepped over the line here and will probably regret it soon enough.

(He only came clean about the whole twin business when the war was won, King George defeated and Regina only a feeble threat, but the issues of that confession are still present nowadays with many a lord not trusting their liege entirely. It is his weakness, she knows, and using it against him feels like cheating – especially in front of an audience.)

David stands up slowly, hands pressing against the hard wood of the table, as if bracing himself against the argument that will come soon enough. She can even see him sigh, closing his eyes for a second before they focus back on her, blue against green.

“Leave us alone. I need to talk to my daughter.”

They both wait, still as statues, until the lords leave the room, and the guards after them. An uncomfortable silence settles between them, and Emma is certain she can hear Captain Jones’ soft footsteps as he paces by the other side of the door. Not that she cares or focuses much on that anyway, for her father’s eyes boring into her are enough to worry about right now. He looks upset and, worse, disappointed – something that last happened when she was six and so fed up with her princess status she deceived to run away only to give them all a scare.

For him to be disappointing in her today… Yes, she has most definitely crossed the line with bringing up his past as a shepherd. Or maybe with even defying his authority in the first place, and in front of a crowd nonetheless? She isn’t certain which option is the right one.

“Papa,” she tries again, almost desperate by now. “Please, papa.”

David pinches his nose for a second before finally walking around the table to stand next to his daughter. He towers over her in all his royal glory, her heart squeezing and tightening at the sight of him.

“Do you know who his father is, darling?” he asks, voice like velvet around steel. She shakes her head, and he goes on with a single word. “Blackbeard.”

Her eyes widen at the name, tales of drowning ships and ransacked towns clear in her mind. She knows Blackbeard the way everybody does, a ghost between the waves, a legend to scare children – plague made man, really, for no soldier and no mercenary ever managed to catch him, let along kill him.

For Killian to be related to him…

“He’s Blackbeard’s son, darling. He has the blood of a pirate in his veins, nothing can change that. Nothing can change _him_.”

She can only gape at her father a first, a single thought crossing her mind – _this is so unfair_. Her father who has always told her not to judge a book by its cover, whose golden rule is to treat your people the way you would want to be treated – her father, who married the personification of seeing the good in people – passing such a harsh judgment on someone based on their _lineage_ only.

“He is Captain Jones’ brother,” she says, pointing to the door as to make a point. “He is the brother of the man you want as the admiral of your fleet. Where is the difference between the two?”

“Liam Jones has been in the navy since he was fifteen. He is loyal to the crowd and has proven times and times again that we can trust him. He never lied, or stole, or did anything equally as selfish.”

She clenches her fists, so hard she can feel the half-moons of her nails biting the skin, tears blurring her vision as her heart beats to the rhythm of unfair, unfair, _unfair_ …

“This isn’t fair!” she snaps, a little bit too loud perhaps, but she no longer cares at that point. “He spared you because not winning a fair fight is not winning at all. His men love him, the people love him, Gods, even _Robin_ loves him. He is kind, and gentle, and amusing, and perhaps the most selfless man I’ve ever met. He’s _you_ , all right? He’s you, only he took care of horses instead of sheep. And for him to be punish for wanting more than a boring common life is _so very unfair_.”

Her voice rises with each word – no doubt anyone still by the other side of the door must hear her clearly – as the tears start falling freely on her cheeks, their saltiness tasting like anger and frustration. She almost stomps her foot, for good measure, as she wipes the tears away and glares at her father.

David just stares back, with the slightest of frown, head tilt to the side. She doesn’t expects him to snap back, mostly because he is not that type of person, but his words, a soft whisper, still manage to surprise her.

“You love him, don’t you?”

It startles her, simple yet unexpected, enough to finally stop the tears as she just blinks at him with wide eyes, mouth opened in an expression of shock. Her heart beats harder, faster in her chest, verging on painful – that in itself should be enough of a clue as to which answer is the right one. But she is too dazzled to actual deny or agree with anything her father says right now.

The fact that perhaps she has not been as subtle as she thinks herself to be crosses her mind for barely a second – August has always had a thing about the truth, surely her parents must have found out from him all those weeks ago, or maybe someone did see her that morning after sleeping with Killian – before she focuses back on the beating of her heart. Yes, she knows she likes him, there is no denying it, not when he is the first man to ever catch her attention in such ways. But _love_? Love is such a strange, foreign concept, something she never cares much about before, something she never thought she would find one day. Does she truly love him? How can she know?

Her father, bless his soul, is oblivious to her internal struggle. He smiles at her but, even through her tears and anger and turmoil, she notices the sadness at the corner of his lips.

Yet that smile, that simple smile, says so much – he knows and understands, for he has been here too, loving someone you’re not supposed to, your soul aching for them in the most painful way. He knows and understands, and Emma’s heart breaks with that thought, breaks with the longing of something – _someone_ – she will never get.

And how ironic is that, really, a princess who owns everything but sets her mind on the only person she can never have?

“I…” she begins, voice breaking on that one word. “I think I do, papa.”

David does the thing then, then one where he cradles her head and kisses her forehead, like he always does when she is hurting. But it doesn’t work this time, because the words become true the moment they escape her lips – she does love Killian, and there is nothing she can do about him, or about the situation he is in. She does love him yet she failed him somehow, and she is not sure she will ever forgive herself.

“Is Captain Jones here with you?” David asks finally, to which Emma can only nods. “Send him in on your way out.”

Emma wants to protest – she’s yet to plead her cause, she needs to convince him, yet to free Killian – but her father doesn’t give her the chance as he tips her head up with a finger before pushing her toward the door with a sense of finality.

“You need to get ready for the tournament. Do so, I will join you later.”

She can only frown at her father then, certain that this isn’t quite right, that he already hides something from her – his smile, more than anything, makes her suspicious. But whatever is on his mind, he doesn’t say, just nods toward the door for her to take her leave.

She does so, not without a pause to wipe her face of a few last tears and to regain her composure – square shoulder, straight spine, confident eyes – so that when she faces the Captain again, only the redness of her eyes betrays her.

“The king wants to talk to you,” she tells him before going back to her chambers.


	17. chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry at how late this update is, but university and life got in the way so... if you're reading this, thanks for sticking with this story

“Well, well, well, dearie.”

Killian jumps out of his skin at the sound, manacles jingling loudly in the silence of the dungeons as he swiftly looks around him, whole body following the movement of his head, fists clenching into fists. A shiver runs down his spine at the eerie laugh that follows, a threatening giggle that gives him goosebumps and has the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. But the cell is too dark for him to see, and it makes it worse – not being able to asset this new threat, being vulnerable in the face of danger.

Another movement to the left and he jumps once more, startled by the yellow orbs shining in the dim light of the dungeons. Eyes cold and lethal dancing in the dark, as if on their own, as if not belonging to a body, and Killian takes an instinctive step back. It results in yet another laugh as the eyes move closer, and so he’s able to make out the shape of a small lean body, slightly hunched and reminding him painfully of some dangerous animal – a lizard, a crocodile, a dragon.

It only gets worse when the man – is it really human? – steps into the light. The skin matches the silhouette, the eyes looks almost murderous, the smirk predatory. Killian takes another step back, panic rising within him when his back brushes against the cold wall of the cell. Trapped between it and the monster, eyes travelling frantically in search of an escape as his brain somewhat manages to put a name on the thing facing him.

Killian has never deemed himself a cowardly man – and if the events of the last past months are telling, he is nothing but – yet he cannot help the fear creeping down his body and rushing through his veins in that moment. Killian is not a cowardly man, but even the bravest of men would falter at the sight of the Dark One.

“Oh, I see introductions aren’t in order,” Rumplestiltskin asserts, too cheerfully to Killian’s liking, with something looking like a little jump of happiness.

Killian can only swallow, the motion painful in his throat, as he prays to any deity willing to listen – Liam believes in the Gods of the sea, great and dangerous like the water they control, and Killian wonders if they could be kind to him like they’ve always been to his brother, if only once. He doesn’t want to die in a cold, damp cell. He doesn’t want to die without telling Emma he –

“What do you want?”

He tries to hiss the words but they sound hollow even to his own ears, and the Dark One’s smile widens. He’s enjoying himself, the bastard, and Killian may not be the violent type but he suddenly feels the urge to wrap his hands around the imp’s throat. He shakes his head and offers his darkest glare instead – as ineffective as the venomous words.

“Now here’s a good question.” He moves closer, finger pointing at Killian’s face. “I have a son, you see. Baelfire.”

It takes a few seconds before the name does actually ring a bell in Killian’s mind – the sound of _even the wolves can be tamed_ still clear in his mind and bitter on his tongue. “Emma’s suitor,” he breathes out, for his own sake more than Rumplestiltskin’s.

But the new fit of giggles is all Killian needs to know he is right in his conclusion, and all he wants is to sigh in defeat. Of course, of bloody course, of all the men courting Emma, it would be _the son of the Dark One_ actually being bold enough to ask her father for her hand. Killian wonders if that man would ever take no for an answer – surely, with such a father, being refused something (or, in that case, someone) might not happen often.

Everything starts to make sense in Killian’s mind – what a good match that could be for the royal family, as it would mean having the Dark One by their side; Baelfire being so certain of their future betrothal; his overall smug attitude. It all makes sense, indeed, and –

“Belle.” He frowns at the finale piece of the puzzle. “You asked her to have me arrested.”

_This_ is why Belle – gentle, kind Belle – did it. Because the Dark One, the same one who abducted the fair lady and turned her into his servant, asked her to. It somewhat reassures Killian – that it wasn’t her idea, that she didn’t become the cold woman she seemed to be earlier today – as well as frightens him – what else does the monster have her do? She’s but a puppet in his ugly hands, and nobody will come to her rescue.

“Ah, yes. She was very helpful indeed.”

Rumplestiltskin looks like he is patting himself on the back then, the picture of pride and smugness. It is irritating as much as it is frightening – the lengths he took for his plan to fall in place that smoothly. Killian sees red.

“What do you want?” he asks again, voice less faltering this time, more confident.

Another laugh has him almost rolling his eyes, but he restrains himself from doing so – provoking the beast the last thing on his mind.

“Are you daft?” Closer still, until a sharp nail digs into the skin of his chest, making Killian wince. “Everything I’ve done, I did it for my son. I made him a lord, I made him a knight. I will make him a prince. And you, dearie, are in the way.”

Killian can’t help sneering even through the pain – he’s certain the nail broke the skin and drew some blood – and pride surges within him at the flash of confusion in Rumplestiltskin’s eyes. “It runs in the family. Treating women like possessions.”

The finger against his chest suddenly grows hotter, patch of skin burning with the surge of magic, and Killian bites on his lip until he feels the metallic taste of blood on his tongue – better that than the Dark One taking perverse pleasing in hearing him scream in pain.

“Why do you care anyway?” he says between ragged breaths. “The noose is awaiting me, I’m no threat to you.”

The Dark Ones clicks his tongue, almost petulantly. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

Killian frowns, confusion painted on his face, as he mules the words over. Despite the abduction of Lady Belle and help against the ogres provided to Sir Maurice, he is not all that familiar with the Dark One’s schemes, only relying on rumours and whispered gossips among servants – not the most trustworthy information. Still the tales are fresh in his mind – stories of the Dark One’s power, of the people he hurt and killed, of his ability to see everything there was and everything there will be.

It is that last one that has Killian curious. Can Rumplestiltskin indeed see the future? And if so, does he see a future where his dalliance with Emma is a threat to Baelfire’s plans?

His own words to Liam come back to haunt him - _she wouldn’t let anything happen to me_ – as a smile finally, almost shyly, curls up his lips. Yes, she wouldn’t indeed, probably already fighting tooth and nail to have him freed of this dreadful prison. He bites down the grin, teeth grazing his bottom lip, as the waves of love and confidence wash down the fear and threats.

“They say you’re fond of deals,” Killian starts, almost carefully. “Is it true?”

Killian pinpoint the exact moment confusion strikes Rumplestiltskin because it is also the moment he finally takes a step back with a frown, mulling over the words and the victorious smile – both, most likely, unexpected. There is a squint of the eyes and an over-the-top flick of the wrist before Rumplestiltskin takes the bait.

“I’m listening.”

He flashes the Dark One a cocky grin before slowly, carefully, choosing his words. “If the princess truly manages to get me out of here like you seem to suggest, and if I find my way back to the tournament… I win, you let us both alone. I lose, I won’t get in the way of your son’s happy ending.”

“You seem quite confident,” Rumplestiltskin deadpans, voice somewhat more high-pitched.

Confident indeed, and Killian almost wants to snicker. Those lords and knights are such jokes that even a stable boy can beat them at their own game – Robin and the King himself the only worthy opponents Killian has met in all those months of battles and competitions. He cannot for the life of him remember ever seeing that Baelfire man jousting, but he has no doubt he would be like all the other ones – over-confident and underskilled.

“Aren’t you? I’m but a squire after all, and your son is a _great knight_.”

The smug grin plastered on his lips, the one that goes along with the mocking tone, quickly dies when Killian notices the fire burning in the Dark One’s eyes – maybe provoking him and getting murdered isn’t the best course of action right now. Just maybe.

Still, satisfaction settles in his chest at how easily he managed to get under Rumplestiltskin’s scaly skin – if anything else, he is proud of this game of wits that could at least leads in Emma not longer being pestered by unwanted suitors. His own wills and wishes matter little compared to her freedom – even if getting out of this cell as a free man would indeed be pleasing too.

A second and a cloud of purple smoke later, and Killian finds himself nose to nose with a long roll of parchment. He barely has time to scan the carefully written words – definitely a contract of some sorts – before Rumplestiltskin taps his long nail on the bottom of the page, effectively directing him to the dotted line waiting for his signature there. Another smoke of magic and a long purple quill appears in Killian’s manacled hand.

“Your name on the line, dearie.”

Killian wants to protest at first – shouldn’t he be reading the whole thing? – but Rumplestiltskin’s eyes are feral on him, as if daring to be provoked once more. So he bites his tongue as his raises both hands to scribble something that may or may not look like his name.

“Well then, dearie, good luck with the tournament.” Grin with a flash of yellow, pointy teeth. “You know what I mean.”

Yet another cloud of purple smoke, one that engulfs the dark One entirely – when it clears, he is gone and Killian finds himself blinking at the spot where the man was standing only seconds ago. A sigh, long and deep, escapes his lips as two conclusions come to his mind. He is still alive and hope is not entirely lost quite yet. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he finds himself mumbling to no one in particular.


	18. chapter 17

The trumpets start playing soon after, their sound dulled by the distance but unmistakable. Killian groans as he rests his head against the cold wall, images of the opening ceremony dancing in front of his eyes – the colourful banners and nervous horses, the cheers of the crowd as they call after their champions, the lords sitting on expensive cushions. He wonders what Emma would look like, in that beautiful dress of hers, proud and silent as all the knights vow to win the tournament for her. Maybe Killian would have stolen a smile from her, with a well-thought line and a wink. Maybe she would have scolded him with her eyes for daring to do so in public, in front of her parents no less, and he would have chuckled in reply.

He sighs, deep and loud, mourning what could have been.

Time evades him soon enough. It may be sheer minutes or maybe hours, he doesn’t know, the cells only lit by torches. They haven’t fed him yet, and he knows the Crown not to be mean enough to let him starve to death, so it might not be noon yet. Other than that, he has no idea how long he’s been here, and is growing restless already – he needs to move, walk, get his horse ready for the first fight of the afternoon. He needs the sun and the sky and water that doesn’t smell putrid. Gods, he needs to see Emma one last time, commit to her every feature, apologize for his reckless choices.

He needs to get out of here. He isn’t sure it is going to happen anymore.

Loud footsteps echoing in the empty dungeon startle him out of his thoughts. Lunch time, most likely, so he doesn’t even bother standing up from his place in the corner of the cell, barely looking up at the man. His stomach is in knots anyway, and his mind wandering to other places, so the tasteless soup and stale bread is the last thing he wants at the moment.

But the guard doesn’t slip his meal by the metal flap, the jingling sound of keys catching Killian’s attention instead. He jumps to his feet, eye widening and mind clouded, by the time the guard opens his cell door. Still he is stuck on the spot for a few more seconds, even when given a pointed look – he barely dares hoping being freed that easily.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks even as he takes a tentative step forwards.

The guard grabs him by the manacles when he is close enough. He doesn’t pull, thought, and Killian raises an eyebrow at that almost gentleness coming from the man – the kingdom has been peaceful for so long, perhaps they lost their touch after a while, no longer used to dealing with criminals and other outlaws filling their dungeons. Perhaps Killian doesn’t represent that big a threat to them.

(Perhaps, just perhaps, Emma worked her magic with her parents and managed to have him freed. He will not be able to go back to the tournament, surely, but perhaps have a quiet low life in a small village somewhere. Perhaps, just perhaps.)

“Marketplace. You’re to be made an example on the pillory.”

His heart sinks at the words, heavy as a rock in his chest and cutting his breath for a second.

Emma didn’t save him after all.

 

…

 

The bells sings midday by the time the guard lock the pillory up around his neck. The tournament is over for the morning, crowd flooding the marketplace to have a well-deserved lunch and drink after so many hours under the unforgiving sun. That’s how they find him, wood biting into the soft skin of his wrist, neck twisted at a painful angle and knees hurting against the stony ground. He refuses to hold their gaze – ego bruised enough already, confidence smashed to the ground – but still hears the whispers, hears his fake name on their lips when their recognize him, along with _liar, cheater, traitor_. His cheeks burn red with shame, and he finally understands the power of public punishment.

At least they are kind enough not to throw rotten tomatoes, or worse, at him, but he knows this has to do with the lack of habit more than anything else. People are not so kind, especially when someone they thought a hero made fools out of them all. Their silent staring says more about the low rate of criminality in the kingdom than it does about empathy.

Still they won’t stop whispering, and maybe tomatoes would be better come to think about it, better than the disappointment and the shame.

A sudden commotion has him raising his head then, only to groan as he sees Ruby climbing the stage to put herself between him and the crowd, hammer in hand, soon followed by both Graham and Victor. If he raises his head a little more, he can see Jefferson in the first row, looking at him with apologizes in his eyes as he holds Grace protectively to his chest – a bitter lips almost finds its way past Killian’s lips at his friend being sorry at having to put his daughter first in that desperate a situation.

It’s all the commotion the crowd needs to take action and soon the first “liar!” is followed by louder, angrier, insults they were only whispering seconds ago. All Killian sees, between two winces at particularly loud or rude insults, are Ruby’s knuckles, white from clinging to her makeshift weapon as if waiting for the right moment to use it. It would make him smile, the protectiveness they developed for each other, were the situation different. Now it only scares him for he doesn’t wish his friends any arm and doesn’t want them to be punished for his actions. He would rather be sent to prison alone than see them fall too, all because of him. Those are his sins to bear, not theirs.

“Listen to me!” Victor yells several times, trying to coax the crowd with his pretty words, but the resistance only makes them louder, on the verge of violence.

Killian’s knees buckle under him, painfully enough to have him groan as his throat presses against the wood of the pillory. He doesn’t know how long this torture is supposed to last, if the guards are waiting for orders or for him to beg to be released, but one sure he is certain of – he will be a saint from this day on, always on the right side of the law, always making sure not to be noticed.

Quite the effective tool indeed, to crush a man’s pride so easily.

He doesn’t notice the screams dying down until the marketplace is silent again, doesn’t notice the person towering over him until familiar fingers run through his hair, nails scratching his scalp. He looks up to the sun framing her body, hair shining gold in the midday light, head up and proud as she faces the crowd as if daring them to open their mouth in her presence. He has never seen her quite like that before, in all her royal beauty – it suits her, her regal body born to rule, her fierce eyes made for justice. Killian’s heart stutters in his chest at the mere fact than she is here, with him, _for him_.

It means the world and so much more.

“Emma” he starts, the name painful on his dry tongue, barely more than a breath. She shushes him immediately with nothing more than a quick glance over her shoulder, and he has no other choice than to comply as, for the first time since they met, their difference of stature actually dawns on him. She is a princess, _the_ princess, and he has been playing with fire for far to long. But she is also the sun and he would gladly be burnt alive for her, because of her.

“Enough,” a voice, not hers, orders as the whispers start running wild once more, along with the rustling of fabric as people kneel down.

The voice – or, really, the person it belongs to – is a surprise enough to startle Killian, a hiss of pain escaping his lips as the back of his neck hit the pillory. Still, he cranes his head until he is able to see the king in front of him, looking at Emma with a smile and a nod. She seems to hesitate at first, unsure of what to do, but then her fingers lose their grip on Killian’s hair as she moves to the side. He reads worry in her eyes – what happened for her to fear her father’s actions? – before he focus back on the king as he kneels down in front of him.

“And so we meet again,” he says, softly enough not to be heard by anyone else, not even Ruby still standing by his side. “Your men love you. My daughter trusts you. If I knew nothing else about you, it would be enough. But you also tilt when you should withdraw, and that is knightly too.”

Killian just gapes at the words, at the compliment coming from the king in such a blunt fashion. He can’t even blink, afraid he will wake up in his cell once more if he does so, the few last seconds only a dream of fiddle of his imagination. But the king stands straighter and turns his head to where the guards are standing, waiting for his command.

“Release him.”

The guards don’t even think twice before running to his sides, keys in hand, and soon Killian finds himself rubbing his injured wrists, not daring to look up to the kind standing in front of him. He doesn’t know the proper etiquette for such a moment, if meeting the man’s eyes would be seen as an affront of a mark of respect, so not moving is a safe enough bet. That is when he notices Liam, waiting a few feet away, eyes never leaving the king – it is quite obvious to Killian then that his brother arrived with the man, the same way Emma did only minutes before them.

The king faces the crowd now, standing proud as he addresses his people. “His father may be a criminal, as it is well known, but it has been discovered that his mother is of finer lineage, last heir of a noble family from the Maritime Kingdom.”

The crowd starts wording its scepticism, matching Killian’s thoughts. His memories of his mother are foggy at best for she died when he was a wee boy, but surely he would have remember such a fact, if only in her way of speaking or moving. Surely she wouldn’t have lowered herself to marrying a good-for-nothing such as his father, let alone would have born him two children. But he can only recall her eyes, blue like his and Liam’s, and her voice, soft and soothing as she sang lullabies to him. So maybe the king speaks the truth after all, Killian doesn’t know anymore.

“It is my word, and as such is beyond contestation,” the king finishes, holding the crowd’s gaze as if indeed daring them to contest. But they are too surprised – so is Killian – to do so, only whispering to each other as they have done for a while now.

Killian grabs someone’s shoulder – Graham’s he thinks, or perhaps Grahams grabbed his when he saw how weak his legs were – and he watches, wordless, at the king turns back to him with a kind smile and even kinder eyes. “Take a knee,” he says, but Killian’s brains take long seconds to actually register the words. He can only stare at Emma then, standing a few feet behind her father, Liam next to her. She gives him a watery smile, tears clinging to her lashes and making her eyes a vibrant green, and nods for him to proceed. He does so, if only because he could never deny her anything, body spurred into action before his mind can react, while King David unsheathes his sword.

“By the power invested in me by my father King George, I dub you,” the flat of the sword grazes one of Killian’s shoulders, then the other, “Sir Killian Jones.” The king then looks back at Liam, amused grin on his lips, “I don’t believe you’ll require the same treatment?”

The crowd laughs and cheers at last, but Killian only has eyes for Emma, the way she claps as delicately as possible even when a grin tugs up her lips. She looks radiant, happiness made woman, and all he wants to do is to take her in her arms and never let go, to shower kisses on her face and shoulders. Alas it will have to wait – for he is certain it will happen now, sooner rather than later, the grand gesture of the king cannot go to waste after all. Still, said king manages to surprise him with his next words.

“Can you joust?”

“What?” is all Killian can reply, eyes growing wide once more.

“My tournament. You haven’t missed a game yet, you still have your chances.”

Victor laugh’s is loud, Graham’s pat on his shoulder strong, Ruby rubbing her face as she looks up as to thank the heavens. It is not the heavens Killian thanks, but the king, as he whispers the words – _thank you, Your Highness_ – with a nod and a smile. The king nods back before, finally, turning around and leaving. He grabs Emma’s hand on his way out the marketplace and, even if she struggles at first, eyes never leaving Killian’s, she surrenders after a few seconds and follows her father without a word.

The crowd scatters at last, Ruby excitedly pushing him in the direction of their tent. Liam follows suite, and only then does Killian look at his brother, a question on his mind and the tip of his tongue.

“Is it true?” he asks. “What he said about mother.”

Liam looks away, then back at him. “Does it matter?”


	19. chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it, folks! The very last one! If you've stuck with me through the nightmare of slow updates and are reading these words: thank you. It means so much to me!  
> A small epilogue will be posted in the next couple of days, but enjoy the outcome of the story.

Emma doesn’t see the time going by during that week, between the tournament she attends every day from morning till dusk and the parties organised during the nights. It is exhausting, to say the least, and her skin takes a pretty golden shade from so many hours in the sun, but at least it has its perks – mainly being able to dance with Killian every night.

His muscles are sore from using them – he’s been making a point of crushing all his adversaries so far, but it does come with its disadvantages – so he spends more time sitting than dancing, forcing her to find other partners all through the night. But the first and last dances are always his, and Emma finds herself sitting next to him more often than not – only standing up when a glare of her lady mother has her finding some suitor to dance with.

The message is clear enough though – she is his as much as he is hers, and few are the men still daring to woo her at this point. Among them, still, and unsurprisingly, is Lord Baelfire.

The man keeps his unrelenting pursuing of her, even daring to claim he will win the tournament for her, loud and in front of a crowd, her cheeks growing pink with embarrassment and anger at such a public display of his affections. He has never cared much about her mind and feelings in the past, but Killian’s presence seems to add fuel to the fire, much to Emma’s chagrin. Her lady mother is enchanted at the prospect of course – for surely his winning the competition could only lead to a proposal and alliance with the Dark One – and Emma’s only hopes rely in the tournaments he has never won so far.

A great soldier he might be, but Lord Baelfire is a mediocre jouster at best. Which makes his success all the more surprising – he is yet to lose a single match. Suspicious even, when he manages to knock Robin down his horse while the latter was a favourite along with Killian.

To the surprise of all, and the displeasure of many a gambler, the final match opposes Baelfire to Killian.

Emma cannot ignore the bittersweet irony.

She sneaks in Killian’s tent minutes before the match, decency and etiquette be damned, and is welcomed by a warm smile as his eyes land on her while his lady-blacksmith helps him in his armour. Emma’s stomach tightens at the sight of him, so carefree and happy – him being taken away by her father’s guards is an image that will haunt her for a while longer, along with the dread and despair she had felt in that moment. Seeing him out of the manacles and with a shiny new title is more than Emma could have ever hoped for when she sought her father out, and the beaming grins on Killian’s lips do nothing to calm her racing heart.

“Gold crown for your thoughts, love?”

She startles at his voice, realises she’s been standing still and silent for way too long now, and offers him a smirk of her own. “You don’t have a golden crown to spare.”

“Not yet, but give me an hour and…” The way he doesn’t even bother to finish his sentence, cocky bastard that he is, makes her smile once more, but it might not quite reach her eyes for he comes closer to her, fingers soft against her jaw. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”

She nibbles her bottom lip, entertaining the idea of lying to him for a second before thinking better of it. “Baelfire,” is all she says at first, and she feels him tensing against her. “That he made it that far in the tournament doesn’t make sense.”

His hand flies from her face to his own head, scratching a spot just below his ear, as he carefully wets his lips, and Emma can only squint at such a reaction. It takes him a few more seconds before he’s able to look into her eyes once more, his clouded by what looks a lot like guilt, maybe regret even. “I may know why.”

He leans closer to her, voice dropping to a soft whisper, as he goes straight to the point and relates the events from a few days ago in the dungeons. Emma’s eyes widen at the implications – surely the Dark One has been using his magic to help Baelfire win, and surely he covered his tracks well enough so nobody would be able to prove it. She is so engrossed in this idea that she almost misses what Killian is actually saying, until his words sink in and she blinks up at him wordlessly.

He simply shrugs.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she tells him, slapping his chest with the back of her hand only to bite down a hiss when knuckles meet cold steel of armour. “The only one who saves me is me.”

She wants to be upset with his, she truly does, for no one should deprive her of her choices and agency, but the way he hides a smile behind an apologetic look at her words prevents her from being angry. Dashing idiot. So she only rolls her eyes and gives his cheek a light tap, before turning away to leave.

“You’d rather win, is all I’m saying,” she says above her shoulder.

The last thing she hears as she close the tent’s door behind her is “That was the plan all along.”

 

…

 

Baelfire’s herald is already making his speech by the time Emma comes back to the royal tribune with Captain Jones in tow. He seems hesitant at first, as if unsure of what to do, so she forces him down on the seat next to her before sharing an amused look with Aurora. The young woman has a child Emma recognizes as the daughter of one of Killian’s men on her lap, and the princess is so surprised by such a sight that she barely dares asking questions. Aurora has always been one for children, after all.

Instead, Emma pats the captain’s arm in what she hopes to be a soothing motion, and he offers her a tight smile so like Killian’s that her breath catches in her throat for a second before she manages to whisper comforting words – she trusts Killian and his jousting skills, and it would be a shame for his brother not to do so right now.

Still she’s so engrossed in her own thoughts of dark magic and evil plans that a nervous giggle escapes her lips when the trumpets announcing the beginning of the match startle them both. Captain Jones looks almost boyish in the way he grins down at her as he delicately pats her hand, comforting her back, before focusing on the joust in front of them.

The squire barely has time to raise the flag that both horses urge forward into a fast gallop, their hooves loud with each stride they take as everyone hold their breath in the tribunes. It all happens in a matter of seconds yet everything unfolds slowly in front of Emma’s eyes as lances crash into chests in a horrible cracking sound.

Or, rather, one does.

Baelfire’s lance goes through Killian’s armour like a hot knife through butter – the motion easy and smooth despite the strength of the impact. The wood then snaps loudly, even if swallowed by the gasps and cries of the crowd. Emma herself lets a high-pitched squeak escape her lips as she grabs Captain Jones’ forearm in a tight grip, other hand shooting to her mouth. She feels the bitter taste of bile on her tongue at the sight – the piece of wood lodged where shoulder meets chest, inches away from his heart.

“Oh Gods,” she whispers, ready to jump on her feet when her lord father puts a hand on her shoulder with a brief shake of the head.

So she looks, helpless, as one of Killian’s friends pulls the wood out of his shoulder – slowly, painful – and hears the holler that dies at the back of his throat. Her wince is one of empathy and only when she feels the metallic taste of blood on her tongue does she realise she’s been biting on her bottom lip until breaking the skin.

When her eyes finally manage to look away from him, it’s to find Baelfire by the other side of the field, looking surprised despite his proud grin. It cannot be mere luck or coincidence, not after a week of won matches, not with the secret Killian shared with her earlier – Emma refuses to believe in coincidences right now, it would be all too easy. Yet she knows she will not find the Dark One in the tribunes, nor will she be able to prove magic was used – he is too good at covering his traces on a mundane day, and surely has taken careful measures if it means his son winning the crown princess’s hand in marriage.

Anger and injustice meet pain and guilt in her mind, her father’s hand on her shoulder the only thing grounding her to her seat as she grits her teeth for the second round.

But the harm has been done already, and the crowd gasps once more when the heavy lance slips from Killian’s fingers seconds before hitting Baelfire – he takes the second blow to the chest and miraculously manages to stay on his horse. Emma watches as the blacksmith helps Killian out of his armour, crimson soaking his white undershirt. He tries holding the lance once more, but his scowl of pain is visible even from afar, and so is the glare he sends Baelfire’s way – surely having connected the dots too.

“He is going to lose,” Emma finds herself saying, to no one in particular, thinking out loud.

“Don’t let go of your faith quite yet,” the Captain replies, wanting his voice comforting. It doesn’t work. “That’s a thick skull my brother has.”

Even if the man’s words don’t quite have the right effect on Emma, her lips curve into a nervous smile at that statement. He is right, Killian would refuse to lose out of stubbornness only, yet it doesn’t make the situation less desperate in that moment. He can defeat any opponent but it would be foolishness to believe him able to win when magic is at play.

Not that it matters anyway, as the page is ready to raise the flag for the third and last round while Killian is still struggling to hold his lance. Emma has never really been the pessimist type – her parent’s annoying ever-lasting optimism rubbed on her when she was but a child – yet she knows a desperate situation when she sees one. Either Killian withdraws now or lets Baelfire beats him in a few seconds, but there is no way he can come out of it victorious – the other man has two points on him, the only way to win is to unhorse him, which is already tricky at best on a good day. So right now, with a wounded arm? Bloody impossible.

The page raises his arm, and the flag with it, when someone jumps in front of them on the tribune in a flash of blonde hair. “Good people!” he says, loud enough to be heard of all. “I forgot my introduction!”

Killian’s herald makes himself at home on the fence in front of them, stretching his arms just so to keep his balance, as the king nods for the page to delay the finale round. They are stalling, Emma knows as such, yet any second seems precious now as the blacksmith sticks the lance to Killian’s arm with a leather strap – desperate times call for desperate measures, and now is as desperate as it gets.

At any rate, the audience seems pleased with that turn of events for surely they’ve heard of the herald’s speeches as much as they have Killian’s skills. And going by the grin he flashes the crowd, the feeling seems mutual. Until he grows serious, of course.

“But please, _please_ , forgive my less than flowery words for I will speak plainly. This is far too rare an occasion to be cheapened with poetry and heavy-handed words, so without any further ado…” The herald jumps from the fence to stand between the queen and king, a foot on each armrest, much to the dismay of Emma’s mother while her father only smirks at the antics. The man doesn’t seem to care about their reactions anyway, only throws them a smile and some apologetic words before raising a hand toward Killian, voice louder. “Here he is! Born in the harbours of that very same city and here before you now… _Sir_ Killian Jones!”

The crowd breaks into cheers and screams and applauses – Emma finds herself clapping too despite the seriousness of the situation. Something about Killian’s name boomed through the field brings a shiver down her spine, eyes watering with pride at how far he has obviously come, how much it means to him, to every one of them. A glance to the side shows Captain Jones, overwhelmed by the moment too, clapping proudly for his little brother and for, finally, some recognition for their family despite their father’s black deeds.

Still the herald’s speech has the expected effect of everyone rooting for Killian (as if they weren’t already) and of giving him enough time to strap the lance to his arm. It looks dangerous at best, and Emma doesn’t even want to imagine how painful it must be, especially with the every-growing red stain on his shirt, but it holds and may it is all that matters – she doesn’t want to think about his lack of armour, any blow taken certainly a finale one.

The flag is raised. Even from afar and even while moving, Emma sees Killian’s arm quivering, his jaw clenched in pain and concentration, glaring at Baelfire. His horse rears before surging forward into a fast gallop, as if sensing the serious of the situation, and Killian all but howls a battle cry, voice booming in the silent field. That brings a shiver down her spine too, the sheer desperation in that single sound, clear as bell and powerful in its rawness.

Emma doesn’t get the luxury of having the scene unfolding slowly in front of her eyes this time. It all happens in the blink of an eye and before Emma can register what actually happened, can analyse each and every movement leading to such an outcome, Baelfire topples over the rump of his horse and on the ground in a tangle of limbs, unbroken lance falling by his side.

Roars of the crowd.

She jumps on her feet, cheer and claps and screams – maybe she’s crying, she isn’t sure, she doesn’t even know at that point. Maybe she even hugs Captain Jones in the spur of the moment, before turning to her father and tugging on his arm, laughing and grinning. “Go” he tells her and it’s all she needs to stumble down the tribune’s stairs.

Killian jumps down his horse, all but ripping the broken lance from his arm, eyes searching hers even while his friends pull him into frantic hugs. Blue meets green across the field, proud grin curving up his lips, as she runs towards him. (She started running? When?) He meets her halfway and maybe he pulls her to him or maybe she jumps in his arms, but the last thing she knows she’s pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around his neck.

“You did it,” she whispers, and it’s awe and pride and love all at once – relief, too.

“Did you ever doubt I would?”

A nervous giggle shakes her body because if he knew, if only he _knew_ , but Killian doesn’t let her tease him about the underlying meaning of his words – just presses his lips to her in a desperate, hungry kiss. The crowd may cheer louder and her mother may end making a scene, yet nothing matters to Emma. Only him and her and he _won_ , gods, he won _for her_. So when, between two kisses – two very public, very scandalous kisses – he whispers that he loves her, she all too eagerly says it back.


	20. epilogue

She is breathtaking in red.

Her lips, painted in the same shade of crimson, curl up into a smile when she sees him, the skirts of her dress twirling around her legs with each step she takes towards him. Everything about her, from the pride in her eyes to the grace in her every movement, is a reminder of the royal blood running through her veins, and Killian idly wonders if he should bow to her. Not that she leaves him the opportunity, taking his hand and guiding him to the dance floor without even asking for his opinion – what she wants she takes, and he has been hers to play with from the moment their eyes met.

He can only put a hand on her slender waist, the other arm still in a sling from his previous activity, and so both of hers end around his neck, bodies closer than they should be – none of them care, relishing in the proximity.

“How are you tonight, Your Highness?” he asks, proud when his voice doesn’t sound that breathless and hoarse.

“Quite well, actually.” She leans towards him some more, voice lower and eyebrow raised, as if sharing some secret with him. “My champion won the tournament today.”

He bites down a smile, for surely it would appears as smug as he feels in that moment, deciding to play along instead as he holds on tighter to her waist. “Oh, really? You must be proud of him.”

She shrug non-committedly, lips pursed into a pout he only wants to devour, before her eyes light up in mischief. “He’s all right, I supposed.”

She laughs at his offended groan, her giggles loud over the soft music of the ball – he takes pleasure in the way hers eyes crinkle around the corners, head thrown back with her laughter offering the perfect view on her delicate throat. Killian wonders how bad it would be for the tournament winner to be found in a compromising position with the crown princess in an alcove or empty cupboard, for he wants her cheeks to turn pink from another kind of bliss, wants to do sinful things to her in that red dress. But he can’t, and so he sighs with a shake of the head at her mocking.

They share more than one dance, and not once do they think of finding another partner nor does one of her suitors step in. He is grateful for that, for the moment of relief they have been given after too many a day apart. He thinks back to Robin’s camp, stolen kisses and dancing around the fire, nostalgic with the freedom she had then, away from court and its etiquette. He wants to kiss her under the moon once more, and that thought alone drives him mad with desire for her soft skin and warm mouth.

“I talked to your parents,” he tells her then, and those words are enough for her eyes to widen, mouth open in a surprised expression. He shows her a grin. “Asked for their blessing.”

Emma’s expression turns wary in a second, as she glances to the side where her parents sit, too engrossed in a private conversation to really notice the crowd around them or the pointed look their daughter throws their way.

“This conversation could only go well, I supposed.”

Killian laughs at the memory of her mother’s murderous looks at the mere idea of a man of lesser birth wooing her one and only daughter – for he knows his new title might sound nice, but is quite useless in practice – and her open hesitation as to the kind of union that would come from such courting. It had taken a lot of convincing and no small amount of opening his heart to the queen about his feelings to prove his love was worth of the princess. If the tender look she had then shared with her husband was anything to go by, Killian was confident he had gained, if not their affection, as least their trust.

Their daughter’s heart would be safe with him.

“Actually…” he starts, and here are the wide eyes once more. “We discussed my future and, if I meet some conditions of theirs, they aren’t opposed to an union.”

He reads disbelief in the frown marring her brows, one he can only share – he still doesn’t quite understand what happened during the past week. Today’s events are nothing but a mystery to him, or a pleasant dream. If so, he isn’t planning to wake up any time soon.

“What’s the catch?” she asks after long seconds of silent contemplation.

He coughs lightly, barely daring to meet her eyes and frustrated in his bad arm for the sling doesn’t allow him to scratch that spot below his ear like he often does out of nervousness. His voice is but a soft whisper when he replies, “I’ll join my brother’s crew next week. I’m to be made captain in five years if I want to ask for your hand in marriage. If – if you’ll have me, of course.”

“Killian…”

“You don’t have to say yes now,” he continues, misreading the feelings she pours in his name. “Or ever, come to think about. I wouldn’t want t–”

He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Not that he could have anyway, her lips pressed against his cutting short any thought he had on his mind. She swallows his groan, grins when his arm wraps around her waist to pull her to him, etiquette and decency be damned. The kiss is everything and so much more, and they probably make a scene of themselves, but it matters so little in that moment. She giggles against his mouth, bites down on his bottom lip like her life depends of it, and so he can only make even more of a romantic fool of himself.

“I love you,” he says, planting another kiss on her lips. “I was in love with you the moment we met.”

“Good,” she replies, her grin dazzling, black swallowing the green in her eyes. (The idea of an alcove is still entertaining.) “Don’t actually turn into a pirate, all right?”

He laughs and kisses her again.


End file.
